ALITTL 


'     ,  t 


W.  B .  MAXWELL 


A  LITTLE  MORE 


BOOKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

NOVELS. 

FOR  BETTER,  FOR  WORSE 

GLAMOUR 

THE  MIRROR  AND  THE  LAMP 

THE  DEVIL'S  GARDEN 

GENERAL  MALLOCK'S  SHADOW 

IN    COTTON    WOOL 

MRS.  THOMPSON 

THE  REST  CURE 

SEYMOUR  CHARLTON 

HILL  RISE 

THE  GUARDED  FLAME 

VIVIEN 

THE  RAGGED  MESSENGER 

THE  COUNTESS  OF  MAYBTTRY 

A  LITTLE  MORE 

SHORT  STORIES. 
LIFE  CAN  NEVER  BE  THE  SAME 
ODD    LENGTHS 
FABULOUS    FANCIES 


A  LITTLE  MORE 


BY 


W.  B.  MAXWELL 


s 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  Iwo. 


PBINTED   IN  U.   8.   A. 


CONTENTS 

PART  ONE 

PAGE 

CONTENTMENT .       1 

PART  TWO 
PROSPERITY 93 

PART  THREE 
ADVERSITY 207 

PART  FOUR 
PEACE  AND  GOOD- WILL 277 

PART  FIVE 
THE  OLD  SONG 333 


2137915 


"  Somewhat  it  was,  saith  the  proverb  old, 
That  the  cat  winked  when  her  eye  was  out 
That  is  to  say,  no  tale  can  be  told, 
But  that  some  English  can  be  picked  thereof  out, 
If  so  to  search  the  Latin  and  ground  of  it  men  will  go  about; 
As  this  trifling  interlude  that  before  you  hath  been  rehearsed 
May  signify  some  further  meaning  if  it  be  well  searched." 

From  Epilogue  of  play  printed  about  1500. 


PART    ONE 

CONTENTMENT 


A  LITTLE  MORE 


CHAPTER  I 

IT  was  a  bright  spring  evening  in  the  year  1913, 
and  the  Welby  family,  with  their  two  guests,  had 
just  sat  down  to  dinner.  Sarah,  their  faithful 
servant,  put  the  soup  tureen  on  the  table  before  Mr. 
Welby;  she  took  off  the  cover;  and  immediately  his 
grey  head  and  broad  face  vanished  in  an  ascending 
stream  of  vapour. 

"Well,  it's  hot  enough,  anyhow.  I  do  like  things 
served  hot."  His  voice  sounded  cheerfully  from  the 
cloud;  then  one  saw  him  again,  beginning  to  ladle. 
"Miss  Amabel,  I  hope  you'll  find  this  to  your  taste.  .  .  . 
Here,  my  love  .  .  .  Violet  .  .  .  Primrose.  .  .  .  Now, 
Mr.  Carillon,  your  turn.  Ladies  first — that's  the  rule, 
isn't  it?" 

"Indeed,  yes." 

Mr.  Welby  was  a  big  healthy  man  of  sixty-three. 
Habitually  he  had  a  jovial  sel/-reliant  manner,  and 
spoke  as  though  his  words  were  not  without  importance, 
and  as  though  he  expected  people  to  listen  to  them; 
but  no  observant  person  watching  him  as  he  handed 
round  the  soup  plates  and  beamed  upon  the  company 
could  have  failed  to  understand  that  he  was  by  nature 
simple,  honest,  and  kindly. 


4  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"When  I  took  the  bold  step  many  years  ago  of 
purchasing  this  house,"  he  continued,  in  his  more  solid 
conversational  tone — "of  purchasing  the  freehold  of 
this  house.  Have  I  your  attention,  Mr.  Carillon?" 

"Indeed,  yes." 

"I  say  when  I  screwed  up  my  courage  and  bought 
the  house  out  and  out,  I  was  warned  that  the  district 
might  go  down  and  the  noise  increase;  but  fortunately 
that  hasn't  happened.  The  road  has  remained  as  quiet 
and  select  as  it  ever  was.  Sitting  here  now  as  we  are, 
is  there  anything  to  tell  us  that  Clapham  Junction  is 
within  a  short  walk  and  the  traffic  of  greater  London 
rolling  all  round  us?" 

"No,  indeed." 

"One  would  not  believe  it.  And  at  the  back  of  the 
house — well,  I  often  make  the  remark :  In  our  garden 
one  might  be  in  the  depths  of  the  country.  You  did 
not  hear  the  trains  just  now  when  you  were  playing 
croquet  ?" 

"They — ah — were  only  perceptible  from  time  to 
time.  I  did  hear  them — but  faintly." 

"Well,  we  don't,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  jovial  firm- 
ness. "Grown  too  accustomed  to  'em,  I  suppose.  The 
fact  is,  my  dear  Carillon" — and  in  his  good-humour 
and  general  satisfaction  he  addressed  the  guest  with 
almost  exuberant  friendliness — "the  fact  is,  custom 
plays  a  very  large  part  in  life." 

"Indeed,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Carillon. 

Mr.  Carillon  was  a  curate  at  the  neighbouring 
church.  Dark  and  thin,  he  had  a  strong  earnest  face 
and  an  unexpectedly  diffident  manner.  He  and  the 
other  guest,  Miss  Amabel  Price,  were  listening  very 
attentively  to  their  host's  conversation ;  but  Miss  Violet 


CONTENTMENT  5 

Welby,  Miss  Primrose  Welby,  and  Mr.  Jack  Welby 
were  less  scrupulously  correct  in  their  attitude.  They 
were  inclined  to  whisper  and  giggle.  Their  mother,  a 
comfortable  homely  woman  of  sixty,  looked  at  them 
with  an  expression  of  gentle  reproof. 

"Jack,"  she  murmured  in  a  low  voice,  "do  be  serious.'* 

Jack,  the  beloved  son,  was  about  twenty-seven  years 
of  age,  good-looking,  easy  of  manner,  with  a  pleasant 
ironical  turn  of  humour.  To  a  cynic  he  might  have 
seemed  extremely  like  a  hundred  thousand  other  office 
clerks  who  went  into  the  City  every  morning  and  came 
out  again  every  evening;  but  in  the  minds  of  his  parents 
he  was  unique  and  glorious.  Perhaps  Miss  Amabel,  the 
ladylike  graceful  girl  sitting  at  his  side,  had  mentally 
placed  him  on  even  a  higher  pedestal. 

"Some  more  soup?"  asked  Mr.  Welby. 

"No,  indeed,  no,"  said  Mr.  Carillon. 

"Miss  Amabel?" 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Welby." 

"Mother?"  He  looked  at  each  in  turn.  "Violet? 
Primrose?  Jack?  Then  remove  the  tureen,  Sarah. 
.  .  .  Now  listen,  all  of  you,  and  I'll  tell  you  a  tale 
about  the  turbot." 

"The  turbot!"  Mr.  Carillon  echoed  the  word 
politely. 

"As  I  was  going  to  the  warehouse  this  morning,  I 
saw  it  lying  on  the  ice  at  Vinnings,  and  asked  the 
price.  'Reserved,'  was  the  answer.  At  luncheon  time 
I  passed  the  shop  and  saw  it  again — the  same  turbot." 

"And  the  same  ice?"  inquired  Jack. 

"At  tea-time  it  was  still  there." 

"But  the  ice  had  melted,"  suggested  Jack. 

"I  looked  at  it." 


"I  wonder  it  didn't  nod  to  you,"  said  Jack.  <fYou 
were  getting  such  old  friends." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous,  Jack,"  said  his  mother. 

"The  gentleman  had  not  called  to  claim  it,  and 
they — —  Ah,  here  it  is." 

Sarah  had  placed  a  large  dish  before  him. 

"And  I  think  you'll  say  with  me — unless  I'm 
mistaken "  Mr.  Welby  became  engrossed  in  carv- 
ing the  truly  handsome  fish.  "Miss  Amabel,  thick  or 
thin?" 

"Oh,  just  as  it  comes,  please,"  said  Miss  Amabel 
shyly. 

"You  are  not  afraid  of  a  bit  of  skin?" 

"She  isn't  afraid  of  anything,"  said  Jack  cheerily. 
"Not  even  of  me." 

"Jack,"  protested  his  sister  Violet,  "you  really 
are—  " 

"Epicures,  I  understand,"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  making 
small  talk,  "consider  the  skin  an  additional  delicacy." 
Then,  nervously  apprehending  that  his  turn  was  about 
to  come  round,  "Oh,  please  don't  help  me  too 
generously !" 

"Nonsense!"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "At  your  age — with 
a  hard  day's  work  behind  you !" 

"And  an  evening  service  before  you,"  added  Miss 
Violet  solicitously. 

"We  are  simple  folk,  Carillon,"  said  Mr.  Welby, 
carving  busily;  "without  pretensions  or  aspirations. 
You  take  us  as  you  find  us.  You  are  good  enough  to 
give  us  your  company  at  dinner " 

"No,  it  is  you  who  are  good  enough  to  let  me  stay." 

"I  was  saying "  Mr.  Welby  carved  hard. 

"I've  lost  the  thread.  What  was  I  saying?" 


CONTENTMENT  7 

Jack  prompted  him.  "You  were  saying  we  don't 
pretend." 

"Yes.  Just  so.  No  pretence  to  be  what  we  are 
not.  You  will  not  find  here  an  affectation.  .  .  .  Prim- 
rose, I  am  taking  out  the  bone  for  you  as  well  as  I 

can  without  injury  to There.'*  And  he  handed 

the  plate.  "What  was  I  saying?" 

Jack  prompted  him  again.  "Last  word,  affecta- 
tion." 

"Just  so.     But  what  was  I  going  to  say?" 

"No  affectation  of  being  any  finer  than  we  are." 

"Yes,  that  was  it,"  and  Mr.  Welby  looked  at  his  son 
in  astonishment.  "But  how  did  you  know?" 

"My  dear  old  dad,  you've  said  it  so  often.  Here, 
get  on  with  the  carving  and  I'll  finish  for  you."  And 
Jack  assumed  his  father's  manner,  even  imitated  his 
voice  for  a  few  sentences,  and  then  rattled  on  in  so 
whimsical  a  burlesque  of  what  Mr.  Welby  might  have 
been  intending  to  say  that  even  the  guests  were  unable 
to  preserve  their  gravity. 

"In  a  nut-shell,"  said  Jack,  "we  are  simple  homely 
folk,  but  we  venture  to  hope,  Carillon,  no  worse  for 
that.  I  like  to  be  master  in  my  own  house,  but  I  am 
too  much  of  a  philosopher  to  play  the  tyrant.  No 
one  can  call  me  fashionably,  or  modern,  or  up-to-date ; 
and  my  family  love  me,  though  they  don't  always  show 
me  sufficient  respect.  My  boy  Jack  knows  my  wishes, 
and  is  not  bad  at  heart.  For  that  reason  he  does  not 
regularly  frequent  racecourses  and  rarely  comes  home 
with  the  milk.  My  younger  daughter,  Primrose,  is 
fond  of  music  and  very  sentimental.  Well,  there's  no 
harm  in  that — at  her  age." 

"Oh,  shut  up !"  giggled  Primrose. 


8  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"She'll  grow  out  of  it.  At  present  she  is  like  the 
tender  ivy  clinging  to  the  oak.  She  hasn't  found  an 
oak  to  cling  to  yet,  but  she  keeps  a  sharp  look-out 
in  a  shy,  maidenly  way." 

"Shut  up,  I  tell  you!" 

"My  other  daughter,  Violet,  is  thought  by  some  not 
to  be  ill-favoured." 

"Really,  really!"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  in  sudden  pain- 
ful embarrassment. 

"Violet's  is  perhaps  the  strongest  mind  of  our  little 
circle.  She  has  inclinations  towards  literature.  Her 
mother  and  I  have  done  very  well  without  the  stimulus 
of  book- reading ;  but  I  do  not  set  my  face  against  it, 
if  not  carried  to  excess." 

And  Jack  wound  up  rapidly,  in  the  style  of  a  well- 
known  public  entertainer:  "I  was  born  in  the  year 
1850,  and  my  birthday  is  on  March  the  24th.  Am  I 
right,  sir?  Thank  you." 

"I  didn't  know  I  ever  talked  like  that,"  said  Mr. 
Welby,  chuckling  good-humouredly. 

"No  more  you  do,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  wiping 
from  her  eyes  the  tears  that  laughter  had  hrought 
there. 

"And  if  you  did,  why  shouldn't  you?"  said  Jack 
heartily.  "You  see,  Carillon,  they  are  not  a  chatty 
lot  at  the  governor's  place  of  business.  The  respected 
chiefs  don't  ask  for  prattle  from  the  heads  of  depart- 
ments. So  he  is  bottling  up  his  flow  of  conversation  all 
day,  and  he  likes  to  let  it  loose  at  dinner." 

"A  meal,"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  "would  be  a  dull  thing 
without  conversation." 

"So  bad  for  the  digestion,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 

"In  one  point,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  after  a  pause,  "Jack 


CONTENTMENT  9 

touched  me  off  right  enough.  I  do  say,  if  a  man  of 
sixty-three  isn't  a  philosopher  he  never  will  be.  And 
without  philosophy,  what  follows?'* 

But  the  others  were  not  listening.  They  had  begun 
to  snigger  again  at  some  fresh  facetiousness  of  Jack's. 
Mr.  Welby  raised  his  voice,  repeating  the  words  loudly 
and  rather  severely: 

"What  follows?" 

"Roast  mutton,  sir,"  replied  Sarah  the  maid  as  she 
brought  the  plates. 

"A  leg,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 

"Any  anecdote  about  the  mutton,  father?"  asked  the 
irrepressible  Jack,  and  he  imitated  a  sentimental  reciter. 
"I  saw  it  once  a  long  time  ago.  It  was  a  little  lamb, 
frisking  and  curvetting  on  the  hillside.  Next  time  I 
saw  it,  it  was  in  a  marsh  near  Sandwich  golf  links.  It 
was  heavier  then,  a  quiet  old  sheep,  glancing  seawards 
with  sad  eyes ;  and  yet  no  shadow  of  approaching 
doom — " 

"Do  be  quiet,"  said  Primrose,  holding  up  her  hand. 
"Listen." 

In  the  roadway  outside  the  house  somebody  had 
begun  to  play  upon  a  harp,  and  its  music  came  floating 
to  them  through  the  open  windows.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments they  all  sat  silent,  listening. 

"Plays  well,"  said  Primrose,  with  the  decision  of  one 
who  thinks  she  knows  what  she  talks  about. 

"You  spoke  of  being  unfashionable,"  said  Mr. 
Carillon,  in  a  sprightly  tone,  shaking  off  his  diffidence. 
"But  you  are  quite  in  the  fashion  to-night.  An  or- 
chestra with  our  dinner!" 

"Yes,"  cried  Primrose.     "They  have  a  band  at  all 


JO  A  LITTLE  MORE 

the  smart  restaurants.  Do  you  remember,  Vi,  when  we 
dined  with  the  Lukers  at  the  Pandora?" 

"The  crowd !  The  noise !"  said  Violet  gaily.  "One 
could  hardly  hear  the  band." 

"Oh,  I  adored  it,"  said  Primrose.  "But  you  had  to 
keep  time  to  it." 

"I  know,"  said  Jack.  "Eating  to  the  measure! 
Getting  in  the  right  number  of  mouthfuls  to  each  bar," 
and  he  waved  an  imaginary  baton,  and  beat  time  as 
though  he  had  been  a  conductor  to  the  music  outside 
the  windows. 

The  music  was  stirring  them  all,  each  in  a  different 
way. 

Meanwhile  Sarah  had  brought  in  the  mutton  and  un- 
covered it.  Mr.  Welby  stood  up  to  carve  the  joint. 
Then  suddenly  the  invisible  harp-player  struck  into  the 
prelude  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  and  Mr.  Welby  stood 
motionless,  with  the  large  knife  poised. 

"Ah,"  he  said.     "Recognize  the  tune,  mother?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 

"And  if  I  may  say  so,"  Mr.  Carillon  added,  "no  tune 
could  be  more  appropriate  to  this  house." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Welby  quietly,  "it  is  a  happy 
home.  .  .  .  Ah!" 

Outside  the  windows  a  woman's  voice  had  begun  to 
sing: 

"  'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home !" 

"Sings  well,"  said  Primrose.     "It's  a  trained  voice." 
"Hush !"  said  Mr.  Welby,  and  he  stood  there  without 
movement,  listening. 


CONTENTMENT  11 

"But  the  mutton,  dear!" 

"Hear  the  song  through.  .  .  .  Hullo!  What's  up? 
They've  stopped  short." 

The  song  had  ceased  abruptly.  Why?  Jack  went 
to  the  window,  and  gave  the  explanation.  "Moved  on 
by  the  peeler." 

"Poor  beggars,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  indignation. 
"I  call  that  very  arbitrary  of  the  policeman — interfere 
with  people  trying  to  earn  an  honest  livelihood.  Be- 
sides, it's  my  house.  If  I  like  to  hear  them  outside — " 
While  he  spoke  he  was  hastily  screwing  some  coins  into 
a  bit  of  paper.  "Here,  Sarah,  you  good  girl,  run  after 
'em  and  give  'em  this." 

And  the  good  girl  Sarah  dashed  out  of  the  house  in 
pursuit  of  the  musicians.  She  was  not  really  a  girl, 
although  she  had  been  one  when  she  first  entered  the 
service  of  the  Welbys.  Now  a  valiant  active  woman  of 
nearly  fifty,  she  worked  harder  than  ever.  Of  course, 
Mrs.  Welby  did  a  very  considerable  amount  of  the 
household  work,  as  well  as  the  cooking,  and  there  was 
an  invisible  maiden  who  came  of  a  morning  and  went 
of  an  evening;  but  Sarah,  if  necessary,  would  have 
carried  the  whole  thing  on  her  own  unflinching  shoul- 
ders. She  had  seen  the  young  people  grow  up;  she 
loved  the  whole  family,  and  had  proved  her  love  in  a 
hundred  ways — most  notably  of  all,  by  remaining  with 
them  after  the  receipt  of  her  wonderful  legacy.  She 
was  the  family  friend  rather  than  the  family  servant. 

She  came  back  from  her  errand  breathless  and 
regretful,  putting  the  screw  of  paper  on  the  table  by 
her  master,  and  reporting  that  she  was  too  late.  The 
policeman  had  shepherded  those  parties  round  the 


12  A  LITTLE  MORE 

corner  and  out  of  sight,  in  the  direction  of  the  "Red 
Lion." 

"They  let  'em  play  outside  the  publics,"  said  Sarah, 
"and  I  didn't  dare  follow  further — with  these  veg- 
etables getting  cold  on  the  sideboard." 

The  meal  went  on.  There  was  chatter  among  the 
young  people  about  neighbours,  more  especially  res- 
idents in  "the  road" — Mrs.  Castlemaine  and  her 
affected  daughter,  who  lived  at  the  Cedars ;  Mrs.  Job- 
son,  of  Number  10,  who  dressed  in  such  extravagant 
bright  colours;  and  so  on.  But  the  gossip  was  all 
good-natured,  without  any  malice  in  it. 

Mrs.  Welby,  Looking  round  the  modestly  furnished 
room,  thought  of  the  verses  of  that  interrupted  song. 
No  place  like  home — wonderful  moving  words  when 
they  find  an  echo  in  one's  own  heart.  Nothing  in  the 
room  possessed  a  substantial  market  value;  yet  every 
familiar  object,  though  bought  "as  cheap  as  cheap," 
gladdened  her  eyes.  The  arm-chair,  the  sideboard,  that 
writing-table,  were  purchased  at  the  same  auction  sale ; 
the  large  framed  photographs  of  herself  and  Mr.  Welby 
had  come  as  a  birthday  present ;  the  water-colour  draw- 
ings had  been  done  by  Primrose  at  school,  before  she 
dropped  art  and  took  up  music ;  the  pretty  embroidery 
draping  the  -chimney-piece  had  been  designed  and 
stitched  by  Violet. 

She  glanced  at  Violet,  and  thought  with  pride  that 
she  had  never  seen  her  looking  handsomer.  Violet  was 
the  beauty  of  the  family,  and  to  the  mother's  partial 
eye  she  seemed  worthy  of  the  title  in  far  larger  circles. 
Dark,  plump,  queenlike,  she  formed  a  fine  contrast  to 
Primrose,  who  was  smaller,  fairer,  less  inclined  to  take 
possession  of  people.  Sometimes,  and  more  especially 


CONTENTMENT  13 

if  there  was  an  unattached  young  man  present,  Primrose 
would  say  innocently  audacious  things  that  made  her 
herself  blush.  Such  sallies  rather  shocked  her  mother, 
and  more  than  once  had  caused  Mr.  Welby  "to  put  his 
foot  down"  in  company.  But  to-night  there  was  no 
one  here  to  stimulate  the  recklessness  of  Primrose.  The 
only  male  guest  was  too  plainly  preoccupied. 

The  diffident  but  admiring  glances  that  Mr.  Carillon 
showered  upon  Violet  were  naturally  noted  by  Mrs. 
Welby.  Nor  of  course  was  Violet  oblivious  of  them. 
There  crept  into  her  manner  that  quiet  assumption  of 
proprietorial  rights  which  Mrs.  Welby  had  occasionally 
deprecated.  Violet's  queenlike  air  announced  that  this 
earnest  person  in  the  black  coat  and  Roman  collar 
belonged  to  her,  and  she  could  not  any  longer  trouble 
to  conceal  the  fact. 

Mrs.  Welby  looked  at  her  son,  her  idol,  and  medita- 
tively observed  him  too.  He  and  Miss  Amabel  Price 
were  whispering,  or  talking  in  so  low  a  voice  that  it  was 
as  good  as  a  whisper.  Admiring  glances  were  flashing 
at  their  part  of  the  round  table  as  freely  as  at  Violet's 
segment. 

The  pudding  had  arrived,  a  trifle  with  custard,  and 
Mr.  Welby  was  distributing  it. 

"Now,  Miss  Price." 

"Why  Miss  Price  all  of  a  sudden  ?"  asked  Jack,  as  he 
took  the  plate. 

"Miss  Amabel,  then,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  looking  at  her 
with  a  kind  smile.  "It  shall  be  Miss  Amabel,  if  you 
permit." 

"I  wish,"  she  said  shyly,  "that  you  would  call  me 
Amabel,  without  the  Miss." 

"Oh,  my  dear."  said  Mrs.  Welby,  intervening,  "we've 


14.  A  LITTLE  MORE 

scarcely  known  you  long  enough  to  take  the  liberty." 

Miss  Amabel  lowered  her  eyes,  flushed  slightly,  and 
her  pretty  lips  quivered.  Something  of  coldness  in  Mrs. 
Welby's  tone  had  surprised  and  wounded  her.  The 
face  of  Jack  clouded,  he  shot  a  reproachful  glance  at 
his  mother,  and  then  beneath  the  table  laid  his  hand  on 
the  girl's  knee  and  held  it  there  a  moment  or  two,  as  if 
to  prove  that  he  at  least  felt  as  cordially  towards  her 
as  ever. 

"Some  more  trifle,  Carillon?" 

"No,  thank  you.  You  were  too  lavish.  But  it  is 
quite  delicious.  Only  one  must  remember  the  proverb, 
'Enough  is  as  good  as  a  feast.'  " 

"The  finest  proverb  in  the  English  language,"  said 
Mr.  Welby,  with  conviction.  "I'd  like  to  see  it  pinned 
into  the  hat  of  every  young  man  beginning  life — yes, 
and  every  old  man  finishing  life  either." 

The  pleasant  meal  was  over.  Already  Jack  had 
brought  out  his  cigarette-case. 

"May  one  smoke?"  he  asked,  in  an  affectedly  cere- 
monious style. 

"Yes,  but  half  a  moment,  please,"  said  Mr.  Welby. 
"Carillon,  will  you  kindly — ?" 

Mr.  Carillon  rose  and  folded  his  hands,  while  the 
others  all  looked  at  the  tablecloth. 

"For  what  we  have  received  may  the  Lord  make  us 
truly  thankful." 

"Amen,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  fervour,  and  he  pushed 
back  his  chair.  "My  first  Grace  was  even  shorter : 
'Thank  God  for  my  good  dinner.' '  Then,  giving  Mrs. 
Welby  an  affectionate  pat  on  the  arm :  "And  this  was 
a  good  dinner,  old  lady."  Then,  turning  to  Sarah, 


CONTENTMENT  15 

who  had  begun  to  clear  the  table:  "And  very  nicely 
served,  too." 

The  faces  of  Mrs.  Welby  and  Sarah  both  brightened 
with  pleasure.  When  you  have  worked  hard  to  achieve 
results,  a  word  of  praise  in  recognition  of  your  success 
is  very  grateful. 

The  others  had  trooped  through  the  drawing-room 
and  down  the  iron  steps  into  the  garden,  to  resume 
the  golf-croquet.  One  could  hear  their  young  voices. 
Mr.  Welby  shouted  to  his  wife  from  the  hall: 

"Going  out.     Back  directly." 

Then  he  snatched  .up  his  hat  and  hurried  out  of  the 
house. 

Although  they  had  dined  very  early,  dusk  was  falling 
when  Mr.  Welby  returned  from  his  brief  walk.  He 
paused  in  the  hall  to  mop  his  forehead ;  he  was  warm, 
glowing  externally  and  internally,  pleased  with  himself 
and  with  everybody  else. 

In  spite  of  the  gathering  shadows  that  began  to  fill 
the  garden,  his  young  people  were  still  busily  engaged 
at  their  golf-croquet.  Their  voices  rang  clear  and 
joyous  as  they  called  to  one  another.  Just  now  the 
game  had  become  an  innocent  mania  with  them.  They 
would  play  on  until  they  could  not  see  the  hoops. 

"Carillon,"  Jack  shouted,  "you're  cheating.  You 
have  moved  your  ball  from  the  wire." 

"Oh,  indeed,  no !" 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Violet.  "He  hasn't  touched 
it.  I  have  been  standing  close  beside  him  all  the  time." 

Mr.  Welby  smiled  tolerantly,  and  he  went  to  the 
dining  room,  where  Sarah  and  his  wife  were  putting 


16  A  LITTLE  MORE 

the  last  of  the  carefully-washed  wine-glasses  into  the 
chiffonier.  The  room  seemed  almost  dark  after  the 
twilight  of  the  hall. 

"Hullo!"  he  said  gaily,  "this  is  blind  man's  holiday 
with  a  vengeance.  Light  the  gas,  Sarah — or  let  me 
have  a  candle.  I  want  to  make  up  my  accounts." 

"Wherever  have  you  been?"  asked  Mrs.  Welby. 

"Never  you  mind." 

"But  what  have  you  been  doing,  really?" 

"I  shan't  say,"  replied  Mr.  Welby,  with  gentle  truc- 
ulence. 

Sarah  had  lit  a  candle,  and  by  its  light  she  saw  her 
master's  face  beaming  contentedly.  She  put  the  candle 
on  the  writing-table  in  the  corner,  nodded  her  head, 
and  smiled. 

"I'll  be  bound  that  I  know  what  he's  been  doing," 
said  Sarah.  "He's  been  doing  a  kind  action.  I  know 
that  look  on  his  face." 

"Oh,  pooh!     You  mind  your  own  business,  Sarah." 

But  Sarah  was  right.  Mr.  Welby  presently 
confessed  that  he  had  run  out  to  find  that  poor  woman, 
and  that,  having  found  her,  he  had  given  her  a  little 
money. 

"Oh,  how  good  of  you!"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  with 
feeling.  "How  good  and  kind !" 

"Well,  we  ought  to  be  kind  to  others,  when  they 
need  kindness,  oughtn't  we?" 

And  he  told  them  that  the  harp-player  was  a  white- 
haired  old  man,  and  the  singer  a  fine,  big  woman,  who 
talked  like  a  lady.  She  must  have  been  a  concert- 
singer  in  her  time,  perhaps  rich  and  admired;  then, 
probably  through  no  fault  of  her  own,  things  had  gone 
wrong  and  she  had  dropped  down  to  this.  He  was  so 


CONTENTMENT  17 

greatly  touched  by  their  forlorn  aspect  that  he  had 
given  her  quite  as  much  as  he  could  afford. 

Then,  to  escape  any  further  praise,  from  his  wife  or 
Sarah,  he  philosophized,  saying  how  swiftly  one  sinks 
as  soon  as  one  has  lost  one's  place  on  the  comfortable 
surface  of  existence.  What  you  have  to-day  may  be 
taken  from  you  to-morrow.  You  are  useful  and 
respected  here,  but  you  find  yourself  useless  and  un- 
valued there.  You  mean  as  well  as  ever,  you  feel  as 
full  of  fight  and  work  as  you  ever  felt,  but  it  all  seems 
no  good ;  and,  try  how  you  will,  down  you  go.  That's 
what  one  should  always  remember. 

"And  every  word  of  it  true,"  said  Sarah,  nodding 
her  head  appreciatively,  as  she  went  out  of  the  room. 
"It's  what  I've  often  thought  myself,  without  being 
able  to  find  the  words  for  it.  But  he  brings  it  right 
home  to  one." 

In  the  Welbys'  household  there  was,  of  course,  no 
nonsense  about  a  servant  not  joining  in  the  conversa- 
tion. Besides,  Sarah  wasn't  only  just  a  servant.  Mrs. 
Welby  always  said  so  to  visitors.  "We  all  regard  her 
as  a  friend.  And  we  have  reason  to.  I  verily  believe 
that  Sarah  Brown  would  give  us  the  clothes  off  her 
back  or  the  money  out  of  her  bank,  if  we  asked  her." 

Before  Mr.  Welby  could  settle  down  to  his  accounts, 
the  male  guest  came  in  to  say  good-night  and  offer 
thanks  for  hospitable  entertainment.  He  was  dif- 
fidently effusive  in  his  thanks,  and  Mr.  Welby  told  him 
heartily  that  he  must  soon  come  again. 

"It  would  be  an  immense  pleasure." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "No  ceremony.  If 
you  can  put  up  with  us  as  we  are.  My  dear  Carillon, 
as  you  have  seen  for  yourself,  we  are  very  simple  folk, 


18  A  LITTLE  MORE 

quite  without — "  And  he  checked  himself,  remember- 
ing that  this  had  been  already  said. 

"We  mustn't  detain  him,"  said  Violet,  "because  he 
has  a  late  service,  you  know."  She  was  waiting  there 
to  escort  him  to  the  front  door;  her  manner  of  bring- 
ing him  into  the  room  had  been  entirely  proprietorial, 
but  it  was  tinged  with  motherliness  as  she  led  him  out. 
"You  have  plenty  of  time,"  she  said  encouragingly. 
"So  don't  run,  or  do  anything  foolish  of  that  sort. 
.  .  .  And  don't  forget  the  parcel  of  circulars  that  we 
put  on  the  hat-stand.  .  .  .  You  have  that  envelope  I 
gave  you  with  the  address  of  the  washer-woman?" 

"Yes,  yes.     Thank  you  so  much — so  very  much." 

When  he  had  gone  Violet  went  yawning  up  to  bed. 
For  her  the  evening  was  over.  But  just  before  mount- 
ing the  stairs  she  looked  into  the  dining-room  again, 
and  thanked  her  father  for  being  so  nice  to  Mr.  Carillon. 

"What  did  she  mean  by  that?"  asked  Mr.  Welby 
simply.  "Aren't  I  always  nice  to  people — at  any  rate, 
when  they're  guests  in  this  house?" 

"Of  course  you  are,"  said  Mrs.  Welby.  "But  can't 
you  see  how  it  is?" 

"What,  something  in  the  wind  there?  You  surprise 
me.  I  hadn't  a  suspicion." 

"Oh,  it's  very  evident,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  smiling  and 
bridling  as  the  wisest  women  will  on  such  occasions. 
"He  can't  keep  his  eyes  off  her.  He  follows  her  about 
like  a  little  dog." 

"Really?  It  seemed  as  if  it  was  her  following  him 
about  just  now."  Then  Mr.  Welby  chuckled.  "Well, 
well.  Of  course,  I  know  we  shall  have  to  relinquish  her 
some  day — Primrose,  too.  And  are  you  pleased?  Are 
you  contented  with  him?" 


CONTENTMENT  19 

Mrs.  Welby  said  she  was  at  least  gratified.  You 
could  not  get  away  from  the  fact  that  in  a  sense  it 
was  a  compliment  to  the  whole  family.  One  could 
scarcely  look  higher.  For,  say  what  you  will,  a  clergy- 
man has  a  rank — 

"Oh,  bother  his  rank,"  said  Mr.  Welby  jovially. 
"It's  the  man  himself  /  think  of." 

"Violet,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  "has  enormous  strength 
of  character.  There  is  no  position  that  she  would  not 
fill.  You  trust  Violet.  If  she  decides  in  his  favour, 
she  will  certainly  make  something  of  him — she  will  draw 
him  out  of  his  shell — she  will  develop  him." 

"Good,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  picking  up  the  old  leather 
bag  that  he  had  carried  to  the  City  for  thirty  years, 
and  bringing  out  his  little  books  and  memoranda. 

But  before  he  attacked  his  task  of  accountancy  they 
had  a  few  confidential  words  about  Jack  and  Miss 
Amabel  Price. 

Mrs.  Welby  said  there  was  nothing  going  on  between 
those  two.  Jack  insisted  on  her  being  asked  here  so 
often  because  he  preferred  her  to  any  of  his  sisters' 
girl  friends;  he  was  attracted  by  her,  but  he  did  not 
mean  anything  serious.  She  naturally  admired  Jack. 

"But,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  "is  that  quite  fair  to  the 
girl?" 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  "she's  only  in  the  same 
boat  with  all  other  girls.  For  I  never  had  one  here 
that  didn't  admire  him.  Besides,  I  gave  Miss  Price  a 
hint  at  dinner  that  she  must  not  nourish  false  hopes  or 
draw  hasty  conclusions.  It  was  when  I  spoke  about  us 
all  calling  her  by  her  Christian  name.  It  went  over  the 
heads  of  you  and  the  others,  as  I  intended ;  but  I  think 


20  A  LITTLE  MORE 

she  understood — and  possibly  Jack  too,  in  the  sense  of 
a  warning  that  he  must  be  careful." 

Then  for  a  little  while  they  talked  of  their  paragon. 

"Just  sunshine  about  the  house,"  said  Mr.  Welby. 
"What  form  he  was  in  to-night!" 

"Wasn't  he?     You  don't  mind  his  chaff?" 

"I  love  it.  I  like  to  feel  we're  pals,  as  well  as  father 
and  son" ;  and  Mr.  Welby  passed  his  hand  across  his 
eyes  and  spoke  in  a  husky  voice.  He  reminded  Mrs. 
Welby  of  how  once  she  had  brought  the  little  naughty 
Jack  for  his  father  to  give  him  a  whipping,  and  of  how 
she  had  cowered  and  trembled  outside  the  door,  torn 
with  anguish  while  she  waited  for  the  sound  of  the 
smacks  and  the  cries. 

"But  I  never  heard  them,"  she  said. 

"No,  I  couldn't  do  it.  'Spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the 
child.'  Yes,  but  it's  something  to  be  able  to  say  that 
your  child  has  grown  into  a  man  and  you've  never 
struck  him  once  in  all  his  life.  I  was  soon  glad  I 
hadn't  done  it" ;  and  he  alluded  to  that  dreadful  time 
when  the  little  boy  Jack  was  so  dangerously  ill  that 
they  thought  they  would  lose  him  for  ever. 

"Oh,  don't  go  back  to  that,"  said  Mrs.  Welby, 
shivering. 

"No,  I  won't.  Except  to  think  how  much  we  have  to 
be  grateful  for.  Fate  has  been  very  kind  to  us,  old 
lady";  and  with  a  full  and  thankful  heart  Mr.  Welby 
sat  down  at  the  writing-table. 

Mrs.  Welby  sat  in  the  armchair  near  him,  and  began 
to  sew. 

"I  think  I  will  have  the  gas  now,"  she  said  presently, 
and  she  got  up  and  lit  it. 

>*Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Welby.     "Bother  the  gas  bill. 


CONTENTMENT  21 

A  penny  saved  is  a  penny  gained — as  these  little  books 
are  proving  to  me  very  nicely.  Nothing  in  the  world 
like  economy,  but  it  mustn't  be  pushed  too  far."  And 
he  blew  out  his  candle,  which  was  no  longer  needed  now 
that  the  gas  was  on. 

Soon  he  was  deep  in  calculations.  Mrs.  Welby, 
sewing,  spoke  meditatively,  to  her  needlework  rather 
than  to  him. 

"No,  I  could  not  contemplate  that  with  satisfaction. 
She  is  not  good  enough  for  him.  He  can  certainly  do 
better.  If  there  was  any  talk  of  an  engagement 
between  them  I  should  have  to  ask  you  to  put  your 
foot  down.  The  thing  could  not  be  allowed  to  go  on." 

But  the  thing  was  going  on  now,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  garden;  and  this  very  moment  Amabel  had  talked 
of  an  engagement  as  already  existing  between  them. 

She  and  Jack  were  sitting  on  the  bench  beneath  the 
mulberry  tree  by  the  end  wall.  Through  the  drooping 
branches  they  could  see  the  lighted  windows  of  the 
house  and  of  the  houses  on  each  side  of  it;  but  except 
for  these  symbols  of  the  narrow  suburban  life,  they 
might  have  been — as  Mr.  Welby  said — in  the  very 
depths  of  the  country.  For  their  whispered  conversa- 
tion a  nobleman's  park  could  not  have  served  them  any 
better  than  this  small  patch  of  garden.  The  fragrance 
of  budded  hawthorns  floating  to  them  from  other  gar- 
dens over  the  side  walls  could  not  have  been  sweeter 
had  it  come  from  thickets  on  a  mountain  slope. 
Springtime,  Night,  Solitude — what  more  can  lovers  ever 
want  ? 

Amabel  spoke  of  its  being  a  long  engagement,  of  the 
problem  of  ways  and  means,  of  the  possible  disapproval 


22  A  LITTLE  MORE 

of  his  parents.  "Your  mother  is  against  it.  You 
heard  what  she  said  to  me  at  dinner."  There  did  not 
seem  much  hope.  And  very  sweetly  Amabel  asked  if, 
in  truth,  he  wanted  to  go  on  with  it. 

"Of  course  I  do.  Amabel,  are  you  in  earnest  when 
you  ask  such  a  question?" 

"Quite  in  earnest,  Jack." 

And  she  said  a  few  words  about  her  present  employ- 
ment. She  was  not  altogether  comfortable,  in  some 
respects.  She  felt  that  she  might  soon  have  to  look 
for  something  else. 

"You're  so  brave.  Amabel,  I  hate  to  think  of  you 
working  as  you  do.  Oh,  how  I  wish  that  when  I  take 
you  in  my  arms,  like  this,  I  could  hold  you  for  ever  and 
never  let  you  go  again." 

"Jack,  please  don't,"  and  she  gently  tried  to  release 
herself.  "Jack,  truly,  I  sometimes  think  it  would  be 
best  for  both  of  us  if  we  just  gave  up  hope — and — and 
agreed  to  part." 

He  could  not  see  her  face  in  the  darkness,  but  it 
was  all  wet  against  his  own,  and  he  kissed  her  as  he 
had  never  done  before.  The  mere  supposition  of  losing 
her  seemed  to  him  now  dreadful  and  intolerable.  His 
pretty  slender  girl,  his  own  tremulous  tearful  clinging 
little  girl.  He  pressed  her  close  against  him,  and  his 
emotion  seemed  to  be  at  once  ardent  and  fiercely 
despairing.  And  in  her,  too,  as  she  yielded  her  lips,  it 
was  like  the  awakening  of  passion ;  she  felt  that  if  they 
themselves  willed  it,  they  could  starve  together,  die 
together,  and  the  whole  world  should  not  tear  them 
out  of  each  other's  arms.  For  a  little  while  they  were 
quite  silent. 

Then  she  roused  herself.     "Let  me  go,  please."     She 


CONTENTMENT  23 

dried  her  eyes.  "Jack,  if  we're  really  going  on  with  it — 
it  mustn't  be  like  this  again.  It  must  be  just  in  the  old 
way.  This  sort  of  thing  would  only  upset  me,  and 
make  it  too  difficult — I  mean,  my  work."  And  she 
spoke  very  quietly  and'  soberly.  "Now  I  must  go  home 
to  the  lodgings." 

"But  you'll  be  true  to  me — you'll  keep  your  faith  in 
me?" 

"Yes";  and  she  clung  to  him  with  all  her  strength, 
herself  kissing  in  the  new  style.  "Yes,  I  swear  I'll  be 
true  to  you.  .  .  .  Now,  let  me  go.  .  .  .  Please";  and 
she  stood  up. 

"You  know  that  if  I  possessed  the  whole  world,  I'd 
give  it  to  you?" 

"My  poor  Jack,  of  course  I  do." 

With  his  arm  round  her  waist  he  led  her  over  the 
lawn,  guiding  her  carefully  so  that  she  should  not 
knock  her  slender  ankles  against  the  croquet  hoops. 

"Say  good-night  to  them  for  me,  Jack.  And  please 
don't  come  with  me." 

"Only  a  little  way.  .  .  .  As  far  as  the  Common." 

And  he  took  her  out  by  the  narrow  passage  at  the 
side  of  the  house,  through  the  door  on  which  by  day- 
light one  could  read  the  rather  too  grand  title: 
"Tradesmen's  Entrance." 

In  the  house  Mr.  Welby  was  still  adding  up  figures, 
and  Mrs.  Wel.by  stitching.  Sarah  downstairs  had 
nearly  finished  her  long  day's  work.  Upstairs  Violet 
lay  drowsily  reading  a  book,  dark  and  plump,  dignified 
even  in  bed;  not  really  reading,  but  perhaps  dreaming 
about  the  development  of  her  property.  Primrose,  in 
another  room,  half  undressed  but  still  wakeful,  feeling 
rather  lonely  and  neglected  too,  was  standing  on  a 


24  A  LITTLE  MORE 

chair  in  front  of  the  toilet  table  and  looking  at  her 
legs  in  the  small  swing  mirror.  During  dull  moments 
she  often  looked  at  her  legs.  From  childhood  they  had 
been  greatly  praised  by  all  privileged  to  see  them.  But 
that  was  the  bother  of  it — one  got  so  few  chances  of 
showing  them,  and  to  so  few  people.  There  had  been 
a  grand  chance  three  years  ago  at  the  High  School, 
when  the  girls  were  going  to  play  "The  Tempest"  and 
she  was  allotted  the  part  of  Ariel.  Only,  her  father 
had  put  his  foot  down  as  soon  as  he  received  a  hint  as 
to  the  costume — all  leg, — with  parents  and  relations  to 
be  present  at  the  performance.  It  seemed  a  shame  to 
rob  her  and  everybody  else  of  the  harmless  exhibition. 
Primrose  shook  out  her  fair  curls,  and  sprang  off  the 
chair.  She  innocently  believed  that  if  she  went  on  the 
professional  stage,  those  legs  of  hers  would  make  her 
fortune. 

Jack  and  Amabel  walked  slowly  down  the  quiet  road ; 
beyond  the  corner  they  were  soon  in  the  noise  and  the 
lamplight  on  crowded  pavements,  with  the  great  trams 
clanking  and  hammering  past  and  the  sparks  flashing 
from  the  overhead  cables.  Then  they  reached  dark- 
ness and  silence  again.  The  Common  seemed  strangely 
silent,  an  immense  waste,  vague,  mysterious,  with  black 
cavernous  depths  beneath  the  trees,  and  only  a  lamp 
twinkling  here  and  there — its  flame  reflected  on  the 
asphalt  path  as  in  deep,  still  water. 

All  alone  now,  they  joined  their  hands  instinctively 
and  walked  on  hand  in  hand. 

Mr.  Welby  pushed  his  spectacles  upwards  to  the 
middle  of  his  forehead,  and  put  away  the  little  books. 
They  had  told  him  what  he  knew  already,  that  he  was 


CONTENTMENT  25 

drawing  very  near  to  the  goal  of  all  his  honest  ambi- 
tions. When  he  had  completed  his  next  investment  he 
would  have  put  by  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  retire. 
Only  another  seventeen  pounds  per  annum  were  needed 
to  yield  the  income  that  he  had  aimed  at  from  the  very 
beginning  of  things.  He  spoke  now  of  what  the  invest- 
ment should  be.  He  had  selected  two,  and  he  hesitated 
in  his  choice. 

"The  Harbour  Board  debentures  yield  a  full  four 
per  cent.,"  he  said  thoughtfully.  "The  Bed-rock  Mort- 
gage Trust  only  works  out  at  three  pounds  one." 

"A  harbour  sounds  safe  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 
"Go  for  that." 

"But  the  Bed-rock  is  safer  still.  Let's  stick  to  safety 
above  everything  else.  That's  what  we  want." 

"Very  well,  dear." 

And  Mr.  Welby  spoke  of  Jack  once  more.  What 
a  piece  of  luck  it  was  getting  Jack  safely  established 
in  that  eminent  insurance  office,  with  a  certain  rise  of 
salary  every  Christmas,  if  he  behaved  himself  properly, 
as  he  would  do.  In  his  supreme  satisfaction  Mr.  Welby 
rubbed  his  hands  together. 

"Thirty  years  hence  there's  no  reason  why  Master 
Jack  should  not  be  in  as  good  a  position  as  I  am 
myself." 

Mrs.  Welby  gave  an  inaudible  sigh. 


AMABEL  PRICE  was  an  orphan,  and  her  life- 
history  a  very  simple  one.  From  the  time  of 
leaving  school  she  had  been  condemned  by 
Fate  to  earn  her  own  livelihood.  A  horrid  old  aunt 
might  easily  have  modified  the  arrangements  of  Fate 
by  giving  her  a  small,  subsistence  allowance;  but  she 
refrained  from  doing  so.  Thus  Amabel,  shrinkingly, 
with  every  fibre  of  her  delicate  body  recoiling  from 
contact  with  mean  and  common  things,  was  forced  to 
throw  herself  headlong  into  the  crowded  labour  market, 
and  there  discover  the  current  value  of  such  goods  as 
refined  tastes,  nice  way  of  speaking,  knowledge  of 
French,  German,  shorthand,  and  typewriting — all  the 
goods  she  had  to  offer.  As  she  found,  they  were  worth 
at  this  period,  with  luck,  thirty  shillings  a  week  and 
afternoon  tea;  or,  with  further  luck,  thirty  shillings 
and  luncheon. 

She  had  acted  as  assistant  in  flower  shops  and  in 
bonnet  shops,  and  now  for  some  time  she  had  been 
doing  secretarial  work  in  an  office  at  Chelsea.  Mr. 
Wright,  her  employer,  was  a  middle-aged  widower,  a" 
kind,  considerate  creature;  if  he  had  a  fault,  it  was  a 
fault  shared  with  most  people  of  kindly  sanguine  ex- 
pansive temperament.  He  liked  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice.  And  he  seemed  to  like  it  especially  when  Amabel 
was  there  listening  to  it. 

On  some  mornings  he  wasted  huge  blocks   of  time 

merely  talking,  instead  of  working. 

26 


CONTENTMENT  27 

"Never  mind,"  he  used  to  say,  when  she  hinted  that 
she  ought  to  tackle  the  neglected  letters.  "Our  talk, 
Miss  Price,  might  not  be  worth  three-halfpence  to  any- 
body else,  if  it  was  all  set  down  and  printed  as  a 
pamphlet ;  but  it  is  doing  us  two  good,"  and  he  smiled 
benignly.  "We  thrash  out  ideas  by  talking  of  them; 
and  although  our  words  may  be  chaff,  there's  always  a 
little  grain  among  them.  When  one  has  anything 
strange  and  difficult  to  do,  it  becomes  easier,  less 
startling,  after  one  has  talked  about  it.  At  first  it 
may  have  appeared  impossible;  but  then,  as  the  talk 
renders  it  familiar  to  the  mind — it,  well,  it  gradually 
assumes  the  form  of,  I  won't  say  a  probability,  but  a 
definite  possibility.  That's  sound  philosophy,  Miss 
Price." 

Amabel  herself  smiled.  "When  you  talk  of  philos- 
ophy like  that,  you  remind  me  of  another  gentleman 
that  I  know." 

"And  who  may  that  be?" 

"It's  a  Mr.  Welby." 

"Welby?  Any  connection  with  Welby's  Dairy 
Equipment  ?" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so.  He  is  in  business,  but  not 
his  own  business.  He  is  some  kind  of  manager  or  head 
of  a  department  in  a  City  warehouse.  But  it's  quite  a 
little  joke  in  his  family  that  he  fancies  himself  as  a 
philosopher.  He  says  that  at  his  age  one  must  either 
be  a  philosopher  or  a  merry-andrew." 

"And  what  is  his  age?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Welby  is  over  sixty." 

"Is  he  really?  Over  sixty!"  and  Mr.  Wright  smiled 
cheerfully.  "Why,  that's  a  great  deal  older  than  I 
am  myself.  I  have  the  advantage  of  him  by  a  number 


28  A  LITTLE  MORE 

of  years."  He  seemed  quite  delighted  at  finding  how 
old  Mr.  Welby  was.  "I  myself  am  on  the  right  side 
of  fifty,  Miss  Price — considerably  on  the  right  side. 
In  the  forties,  I  can  still  call  myself.  And  nowadays 
that  isn't  really  counted  as  being  old  at  all." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Amabel  politely. 

"Of  course  not?  You  feel  that  yourself — young  as 
you  are.  How  old  are  you,  Miss  Price,  exactly?" 

Amabel  said  she  was  twenty-four  now,  adding  as 
people  always  do  that  she  would  be  a  year  older  next 
birthday. 

"I  should  scarcely  have  guessed  you  as  so  old  as 
that.  Twenty-four!"  And  he  smiled  at  her.  "You 
can't  be  expected  to  be  very  philosophical  at  twenty- 
four,  Miss  Price.  And  /  can't  be  as  philosophical  at 
my  age  as  I  shall  be  no  doubt  when  I  reach  the  age  of 
old  what's-his-name — your  friend  the  warehouseman.'* 
And  Mr.  Wright  laughed  gaily. 

Little  by  little  Amabel  recognized  that,  kind  and 
considerate  as  he  was  to  everybody  in  the  office,  he  was 
more  so  to  her.  This  troubled  her.  Girls  of  Amabel's 
disposition  hardly  ever  deceive  themselves ;  they  are 
not  run  away  with  by  their  own  conceit ;  if  they  instinc- 
tively feel  that  anybody  is  falling  in  love  with  themj 
their  instinct  has  nearly  always  warned  them  correctly. 

There  were  days  on  which  she  thought  she  was  wrong, 
but  they  were  followed  by  days  when  she  feared  she 
was  not  wrong;  and  after  the  day  when  he  summoned 
her  to  Bickley  to  do  some  typewriting  for  him  at  his 
private  residence,  she  felt  very  little  doubt  that  she 
had  been  right  from  the  beginning.  He  took  her  all 
over  the  house  and  all  round  the  garden,  and  up  to  the 
knoll  of  ground  where  you  had  the  view  of  the  Crystal 


CONTENTMENT  29 

Palace;  he  introduced  her  to  the  children  and  their 
governess,  to  the  maid-housekeeper  and  the  other  serv- 
ants, even  to  the  boy  who  did  the  knives  and  shoes; 
moreover,  such  an  absurdly  small  amount  of  typewrit- 
ing was  accomplished  during  the  whole  visit. 

"Only  a  little  box,  Miss  Price,"  he  said,  when  taking 
her  down  the  gravel  drive  towards  the  railway  station. 
"But  size  isn't  everything.  You  can  pack  a  lot  of 
happiness  into  a  very  small  space  if  you  know  how  to 
set  about  it.  In  fact,  the  higher  part  of  human  life  is 
not  susceptible  to  measurement  by  three  dimensions 
at  all." 

After  this  she  felt  greatly  worried.  Sometimes  the 
atmosphere  of  the  office  seemed  overcharged  with  secret 
intentions,  and  when  he  talked  to  her — thrashing  out 
ideas,  as  he  called  it — he  seemed  insidiously  to  be  lead- 
ing her  thoughts  always  in  one  direction.  When  he 
was  busy  at  the  larger  writing-table  she  used  to  look 
up  from  her  small  desk  and  steal  glances  at  his  round 
reddish  side-face,  partially  bald  head,  and  robust  shoul- 
der. And  if  one  of  these  glances  met  his  kind  frank 
blue  eyes,  she  started  guiltily.  She  felt  guilty  and 
distressed,  because  if  he  was  really  growing  fond  of 
her,  she  hated  the  idea  of  being  forced  to  give  him  pain. 
If,  as  she  believed,  he  meditated  a  proposal,  she  wanted 
to  turn  it  aside  before  it  was  put  into  spoken  words. 
But  somehow  she  did  not  dare  attempt  this.  After  all, 
she  might  be  wrong. 

"I  am  not  as  young  as  I  should  like  to  be,"  said  Mr. 
Wright;  and  Amabel,  thinking  "Oh,  my  goodness,  now 
it's  coming !"  fell  into  a  tongue-tied  confusion  of  spirit. 

"No,"  continued  Mr.  Wright,  in  his  philosophical 
tone,  "I  wish  I  was  younger,  and  less  uninteresting. 


30  A  LITTLE  MORE 

However,  this  is  a  logical  point — worth  consideration. 
There's  nobody  in  the  world,  probably,  who  isn't  wish- 
ing for  things  he  hasn't  got.  But  one  must  strike  a 
balance,  I  always  think — and  be  thankful  for  small 
mercies."  And  he  smiled  at  her.  "One  must  think  of 
the  great  universal  benefits  that  we  all  enjoy." 

"What  are  they?"  asked  Amabel  helplessly. 

"Why,  that  we  live  in  this  enlightened  time,  under  a 
good  government;  with  plenty  in  the  land,  and  the 
whole  world  at  peace.  Miss  Price,  when  I  am  inclined 
to  crave  for  the  unattainable,  I  try  to  thank  Prov- 
idence for  these  manifold  blessings — for  education  too, 
modern  sanitation,  splendid  railway  services,  efficient 
police,  wise  municipal  enterprise — the  convenience  of 
the  telephone,  the  electric  light,  and  the  Tube.  They 
are  within  the  reach  of  everybody.  That,  you  know, 
is  philosophy.  But  philosophy  won't  always  help,"  and 
he  looked  at  her  very  hard.  "I  am  craving  perhaps 
for  the  unattainable  now.  And  philosophy  won't  help 
me,  for  I  shall  be  broken-hearted  if  you  say  'No.'  Miss 
Price,  will  you  be  my  wife?" 

And  he  went  on  to  speak  of  the  advantages — small 
ones — but  still  advantages — that  she  would  secure  in 
such  a  marriage.  He  said  the  usual  things  about  the 
inconvenience,  the  discomfort,  and  the  peril  even,  that 
a  pretty  girl  of  twenty-four  has  to  face  when  fighting 
the  battle  of  life  all  by  herself;  but  he  said  them  with 
such  generous  feeling  and  delicacy  of  expression  that 
Amabel  was  quite  overwhelmed.  Indeed,  he  pleaded  for 
the  answer  he  desired  in  so  manly  and  yet  gentle  a 
style  that  the  old  proverb  passed  through  her  mind 
and  seemed  extraordinarily  true.  "Handsome  is  that 
handsome  does."  In  spite  of  stoutness,  redness,  bald- 


CONTENTMENT  31 

ness,  Mr.  Wright  imploring  her  to  marry  him  seemed 
as  good-looking  as  need  be.  And  she  knew  the  advan- 
tages he  spoke  of.  They  were  not  small,  but  big.  A 
girl  cannot  go  into  the  labour  market  and  live  by  her- 
self in  a  lodging-house  without  thoroughly  understand- 
ing what  such  advantages  are. 

But  for  Jack  Welby,  she  would  have  said  "Yes" 
instead  of  "No." 

"Don't  let  this  be  final,"  said  Mr.  Wright,  still  plead- 
ing. "Take  time.  Though  I  have  endeavoured  to 
make  the  idea  familiar,  it  still  startles  you.  It  may 
yet  lose  its  repellent  aspect — unless  there  is  already 
somebody  else." 

And  Amabel,  with  wet  eyes  and  a  catch  in  her  breath, 
had  to  say  that  there  was. 

"Ah !"  said  Mr.  Wright.  Then  he  sat  down  at  the 
big  table  and  hid  his  red  face  in  his  hands. 

After  that  Amabel  could  not,  of  course,  remain  in 
his  employment.  The  nice  good  fellow  begged  her  to 
stay  and  not  consider  his  feelings;  and  when  she  went 
he  wanted  to  assist  her  financially.  But  that,  too,  was 
of  course  impossible. 

She  had  not  much  difficulty  in  finding  another  job. 
Her  new  employer  was  altogether  different  from  her 
last  one.  This  Mr.  Hector  Lyme  was  richer  but  less 
generous  than  Mr.  Wright;  a  tall  thin  bachelor  of 
thirty-five;  hard-faced,  except  about  the  mouth,  which 
was  loose  and  unpleasing  to  look  at.  He  bullied  her. 

"I  am  sorry  I'm  a  little  late,"  she  said,  settling  down 
to  her  task. 

"So  am  I.     Because  I  have  been  waiting  for  you." 

"Just  five  minutes,"  said  Amabel  in  a  flutter,  "I 
see  by  your  clock  there." 


32  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"One  can  get  through  a  lot  in  five  minutes." 

"I  know  one  can,"  said  Amabel  nervously,  arranging 
her  things  and  making  ready.  "I  always  go  by  the 
church  clock  on  Clapham  Common,  but  it  has  stopped. 
And  for  the  first  time  this  morning  the  'buses  were  all 
crowded — inside  and  out.  I  stood  there,  and  they  went 
by,  one  after  another,  before — " 

He  made  an  irritated  exclamation.  "Miss  Price, 
you  have  wasted  five  minutes  of  my  time.  Are  you 
going  to  waste  five  more  minutes  while  you  explain  why 
you  wasted  the  first  five?" 

"Sorry."  And  Amabel  lowered  her  head  over  the 
notebook. 

This  was  Mr.  Lyme's  way.  He  was  going  into 
Parliament ;  he  had  a  career  before  him.  He  meant  to 
do  very  well  in  the  world,  and  he  always  took  advan- 
tage, in  every  possible  manner,  of  defenceless  people. 
He  bullied  Amabel  that  morning  and  he  went  on  doing 
it. 

But  instinct  told  her  that  he  was  not  oblivious  of  her 
youth  and  sex,  or  of  the  attractiveness  that  the  com- 
bination of  these  attributes  usually  possesses.  Soon  he 
mingled  nasty  little  kindnesses  in  his  general  harsh 
methods — as,  for  instance,  offering  her  sweets  out  of 
a  box  and  touching  her  fingers  when  she  helped  herself. 
Then  he  gave  her  sugar  plums  of  complimentary  speech 
that  made  her  blush,  while  he  sat  looking  at  her,  watch- 
ing the  effect  of  his  words. 

He  said  he  admired  her  very  much.  But  he  was  not 
like  Mr.  Wright.  He  did  not  mean  marriage.  He  only 
meant  week-ends  at  Brighton,  and  a  new  frock  or  two, 
when  they  were  to  be  obtained  cheaply,  at  the  summer 
sales.  He  tried  to  make  her  understand  what  was  in 


CONTENTMENT  33 

his  mind,  but  she  refused  to  show  she  understood, 
desperately  clinging  to  her  employment,  with  its  thirty 
shillings  a  week  and  afternoon  tea,  and  trying  to  make 
him  understand  that  if  she  admitted  she  understood 
she  would  have  to  give  it  up  and  go. 

Understanding  at  last,  he  was  angry ;  and  he  became 
definitely  and  consistently  unkind. 

All  this  made  her  unhappy,  but  she  strove  to  keep 
most  of  it  from  Jack. 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  had  been  long  a  tradition  in  the  family  that  Mr. 
Welby  was  a  good  whip.  Mrs.  Welby  always  said 
so,  and  he  said  so  himself.  He  knew  no  greater 
treat  than  to  exercise  this  accomplishment  by  hiring 
the  well-known  brown  horse  and  the  neat  T-cart  from 
Messrs.  Manger,  of  the  Junction  Road,  and  taking 
Mrs.  Welby  for  a  Saturday  afternoon  drive.  Now  on 
this  Saturday  he  had  had  his  drive;  but  Mrs.  Welby, 
occupied  by  household  duties,  had  been  compelled  to 
forego  the  excursion  and  send  in  her  place  one  of  Mr. 
Welby's  male  friends. 

"I  wish  you  could  have  come,"  said  Mr.  Welby  at 
dinner;  "especially  when  I  saw  that  .the  rain  was  going 
to  hold  off.  Across  Wimbledon  way  the  dark  clouds 
were  banking  up  something  terrific.  The  very  horse 
seemed  to  know  it  was  coming,  and  I  said  to  Jobson, 
'We  shall  catch  it  before  we're  much  older' ;  and  then  I 
thought,  'After  all,  I'm  glad  she  isn't  with  us.'  But 
it  seemed  to  clear  off  when  we  got  further  on.  Mind 
you,  we  shall  have  it  yet — before  nightfall.  You  can 
feel  it  in  the  atmosphere." 

And  indeed  it  was  a  queer  oppressive  sort  of  evening, 
not  the  slightest  movement  in  the  warm  air  of  the  gar- 
den and  a  heavy  stagnant  silence  outside  in  the  road. 

"The  barometer,"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  "has  proved  a 
very  untrustworthy  guide  this  last  fortnight.  The 
vicar  keeps  one  of  those  pocket  aneroids  on  his  study 
table,  but  I  have  almost  given  up  consulting  it." 

34 


CONTENTMENT  35 

The  same  party  was  assembled  round  the  dinner- 
table  as  on  that  night  a  month  ago  when  Mr.  Welby 
brought  home  the  turbot.  Since  then  Mr.  Carillon  had 
been  a  frequent  visitor;  and,  much  of  his  shyness  having 
worn  off,  he  showed  an  easier  manner  and  talked  more 
freely.  Amabel  too  had  been  here  once  or  twice,  but 
she  had  not  become  talkative.  To-night,  as  Mrs.  Welby 
noticed,  she  looked  pale  and  headachy.  But,  except 
for  Mr.  Welby,  refreshed  by  his  outing,  they  all  seemed 
to  be  suffering  from  a  certain  languor  or  lassitude. 

.  Mr.  Welby,  continuing  to  narrate  the  events  of  the 
afternoon,  described  how  the  drive  terminated  at  Epsom 
with  a  distant  view  of  "the  great  Derby  racecourse." 
Already  preparations  for  next  week's  festival  were 
being  made  on  the  downs,  and  Mr.  Welby  spoke  sadly 
of  all  the  foolish  people  who  would  compose  the  racing 
crowd  and  of  all  the  money  that  would  be  lost. 

"Lost  and  won,"  said  Jack.  "They  don't  all  lose, 
you  know." 

"They  do — in  the  long  run,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  And 
he  told  them  how  his  friend  Jobson  had  reminded  him 
of  something  that  he  himself  had  read  in  print,  as  an 
instance  of  profligate  waste.  Enough  champagne  was 
drunk  on  Derby  day  to  float  a  battleship. 

"Only  it  isn't  real  champagne,"  said  Jack  cynically. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Carillon.  "I  have  seen  it  further 
stated  that  champagne  consumed  during  one  London 
season  could  not  possibly  be  made  from  the  entire 
harvest  of  the  grape  vines  throughout  France." 

"Or  the  harvest  of  the  gooseberry  bushes,  either," 
said  Jack  contemptuously.  "Chemicals.  Just  chem- 
icals." 

"Yes,  my  friend  Jobson  spoke  of  the  meretricious 


36  A  LITTLE  MORE 

stuff  they  sell  for  claret  also,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "As 
soon  as  his  head  was  turned  towards  home — I  am 
speaking  of  the  horse — he  seemed  to  go  literally  wild. 
Passing  through  Ewell  he  did  one  of  his  quick  swerves, 
and  he'd  have  taken  me  wrong  side  of  the  lamp-post, 
if  I  hadn't "  And  Mr.  Welby  indicated  in  pan- 
tomime his  masterly  handling  of  the  reins. 

The  sound  of  a  strident  voice  became  audible,  grow- 
ing nearer  and  louder.  It  was  a  boy  hurrying  down 
the  quiet  road  with  the  final  edition  of  the  evening 
newspaper.  "All  the  winners!  Hurst  Park  results! 
All  the  winners !"  Jack  unceremoniously  left  the  table 
and  went  out  to  buy  a  paper. 

"You  see,"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  "those  yelling  cries 
are  permitted  without  protest.  It  would  be  far  better 
if  the  police  interfered  with  that  sort  of  song.  Perhaps 
it  is  uncharitable,  but  I  sometimes  think  it  would  be  a 
blessing  if  horse-racing  were  abolished  throughout  the 
width  and  breadth  of  the  land.  Statesmen  must  surely 
see  that  betting  is  a  temptation  that  encourages  one 
of  the  worst  passions — the  greed  for  gain  which  has 
not  been  earned  by  effort.  It  is  the  hundred-to-one 
chance,  the  notion  of  a  pocketful  of  coin  all  in  a  mo- 
ment, that  leads  mere  lads  sometimes —  Why,  at  our 
Boys'  Brigade — " 

"We  had  a  jobbing  gardener  who  was  ruined  by  it," 
said  Mrs.  Welby. 

"Half  the  clerks  in  the  City!"  said  Mr.  Welby. 
"Vi — two  slices?" 

"One  is  sufficient." 

Jack,  returning  with  a  sombre  air,  tossed  the  news- 
paper upon  the  sideboard  and  resumed  his  seat. 


CONTENTMENT  37 

"Not  even  placed,"  he  whispered  to  Amabel.  "I 
must  have  been  born  wise.  I  wasn't  born  the  other 
thing." 

"There's  a  second  proverb  about  luck,"  whispered 
Amabel,  rather  reproachfully. 

"Of  course  there  is,"  said  Jack.  "Lucky  in  love— 
what?"  And  he  patted  her  hand,  unobserved  by  any- 
body else. 

Mr.  Carillon  went  on  didactically :  "Apart  from  the 
restlessness  and  the  unsettling  habit  of  mind  it  induces, 
it  leads  to  desires  for*  unobtainable  things.  One  may 
say  of  it,  in  the  French  phrase,  the  appetite  grows  in 
eating." 

"Quite  so,"  said  Jack  curtly.  "But  what's  it? 
Bunger's  Nerve  Tonic?" 

"We  started  from  betting,"  Carillon  explained. 
"But  I  am  generalizing  now  in  a  tentative  way  about 
the  prevalent  wish  for  money." 

"Oh,  very  wrong  and  foolish,"  said  Jack,  with  a 
scornful  laugh. 

"If  they  really  knew,  perhaps  they  wouldn't.  It  is 
among  the  lessons  derived  from  this  very  parish.  Often 
I  have  observed  the  hardening,  deteriorating  effect  of 
prosperity.  I  do  not  mean  great  wealth,  because  then 
it  is  so  obvious.  And  in  the  parish,  as  you  are  aware, 
there  is  no  case  of  extreme  affluence." 

Violet  interrupted  him  with  unusual  animation. 
"Mrs.  Verity !  What  about  her?  Have  you  seen  their 
lovely  new  car?" 

"And  Mrs.  Fardell !"  cried  Primrose,  even  more 
sharply.  "That  woman  must  spend  a  fortune  on  dress. 
For  I  know  she  goes  to  the  most  expensive  shops.  Her 
hats!  They  make  one  sick  with  envy." 


38  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Primrose,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  "that's  not  a  pretty 
word  on  your  lips,  my  dear.  Itis  a  word  I  don't  care 
to  hear  uttered,  even  in  joke." 

"Of  course  I  didn't  mean  it  really." 

"No,  I  should  hope  not." 

"And  I  don't  say  the  woman  hasn't  taste,  but  she's 
becoming  more  recklessly  gorgeous  in  church  every 
week.  Amabel,  did  you  see  her  hat  last  Sunday?" 

"No,  I  didn't  notice." 

"I  am  quite  sure  that  Miss  Price,"  said  Mr.  Carillon, 
smiling  at  her  approvingly,  "was  better  employed." 

"That  means  listening  to  your  sermon,  eh?"  said 
Jack.  "Fire  ahead,  then.  But  don't  use  it  all.  Save 
some  for  next  Sunday." 

"You  are  too  bad" — and  Carillon  turned  to  Mr. 
Welby.  "Among  the  industrious  classes,  the  real  work- 
ing people,  I  have  observed  that  when  their  material 
circumstances  improve,  they  begin  to  fail  spiritually." 

"Leave  off  work  and  take  to  drink?"  suggested  Mr. 
Welby. 

"No,  I  did  not  quite  mean  that.  No.  I  hesitate 
for  an  illustration.  But  when  you  expect  them  to  rise 
to  improved  conditions  of  mind  because  of  largely  in- 
creased bodily  comfort,  they  go  downward.  They  are 
no  longer  satisfied — they  become  greedy — they  ask  for 
further  advancement." 

"There  you  are  again,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "Philos- 
ophy !  Want  of  the  right  sort  of  education,  too. 
Faddism — modern  cleverness  instead  of  old-fashioned 
common-sense.  It  is  so  easy  to  lose  sight  of  essentials. 
Money  is  necessary,  to  buy  necessaries." 

"Oh,  quite  epigrammatic,"  said  Jack  -sneeringly. 


CONTENTMENT  39 

"The  rest,"  said  his  father  firmly,  "is  just  super- 
fluity. That  is,  if  one  has  enough." 

"Yes,"  said  the  curate,  with  conviction,  "if  one  is 
contented  one  is  rich.  You  have  summed  it  up.  Yet 
I  often  think  how  much  one  might  do  with  only  a 
small  additional  sum."  And  in  a  feeling  manner  he 
quoted  poetry.  "  'The  little  more  and  how  much  it 
is,  the  little  less  and  what  worlds  away.' ' 

"Say  that   again,"  said  Jack.     "That's  good." 

And  Mr.  Carillon  repeated  in  the  same  tone :  "  'The 
little  more  and  how  much  it  is' !" 

"By  Jove!  that's  true.  The  little  more,  and  how 
much  it  is." 

"Browning." 

"I  don't  care  who  said  it,  it's  devilish  good.  Isn't 
it,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Welby  sighed,  and  for  a  few  moments  every- 
one was  silent,  thinking. 

"Oh,  of  course,"  said  old  Welby,  breaking  the  silence 
jovially.  "Of  course,  we  could  all  do  with  a  little  more. 
We'd  all  be  ready  to  enlarge  our  plans  a  bit." 

"By  Jove,  yes,"  said  Jack,  with  feeling.  "I  know, 
if  I  have  drawn  the  winning  number  in  the  Calcutta 
sweep — " 

"And  if  I  get  anything  out  of  the  Home  Notes* 
Literary  Competition,"  said  Violet. 

"I  never  build  on  it,"  said  Mrs.  Welby;  "but  if  a 
little  venture  of  mine  should  turn  up  trumps " 

"What's  this?"  Mr.  Welby  looked  from  one  to 
another  in  astonishment.  "Let  me  get  my  bearings, 
please,"  and  he  addressed  Jack  severely.  "Calcutta 
sweep?  D'you  mean  the  great  Derby  lottery?  Why, 


40  A  LITTLE  MORE 

that's  reserved  for  people  connected  with  India.  How 
can  you " 

"Very  simply,"  said  Jack.  "A  fellow  I  know  knows 
a  fellow  who  happens  to  be  connected  with  India,  and 
being  an  obliging  fellow,  he  has  procured  me  a  ticket 
— Number  612854.  Remember  it  in  your  prayers, 
Carillon." 

"Don't  be  profane,"  said  Violet. 

"Attend  to  me,  please,"  and  Mr.  Welby  continued 
in  his  heaviest  voice :  "If  you  win,  Jack,  how  much  do 
you  expect  to  get?" 

"Thirty  thousand  of  the  best." 

Mr.  Welby  shrugged  his  shoulders  contemptuously. 
"Thirty  thousand  to  one,  eh?  You've  got  plenty 
against  you." 

"Yes,  but  somebody's  going  to  win.  Why  not  me, 
just  for  a  change — not  to  make  a  practice  of  it — only 
this  year?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Welby  gently,  "it's  all  a 
mattei'  of  luck." 

"You  too,  mother,"  and  Mr.  Welby  looked  at  her 
keenly  and  reproachfully.  Then  he  forced  himself  to 
smile.  "I'm  ashamed  of  you.  You  out  for"  a  bit  of 
luck  too?" 

"Well,  isn't  it  time?"  said  Mrs;  Welby,  with  a  sigh. 

Mr.  Welby  frowned.  The  drift  that  the  talk  had 
takon  was  extremely  distasteful  to  him;  he  had  been 
irritated  by  Jack's  foolishness  about  the  lottery  ticket, 
and  his  pride  was  a  little  wounded  by  what  Jack's 
mother  had  just  said.  But  it  would  be  wrong  on  his 
part  to  take  any  of  their  idle  words  seriously.  For 
the  second  time  he  compelled  himself  to  make  light  of 
everything. 


CONTENTMENT  41 

"Luck,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "isn't  coming  down 
this  road." 

"It  has  come  down  the  road  once,  sir,"  said  Sarah 
the  maid. 

"Ah,  to  be  sure.  You  are  the  lucky  one,  Sarah.  No 
one  ever  left  me  money.  Carillon,  you  heard  of  the 
legacy  to  our  friend  here?" 

"Yes,  indeed." 

"She  hadn't  any  expectations  from  her  aunt — never 
guessed  till  the  lawyers  wrote  to  her.  Like  a  fairy 
tale !" 

Sarah  at  the  sideboard  nodded  her  head  affirmatively, 
and  smiled  as  she  stacked  the  pudding  plates. 

"Quite  a  nice  little  lump  of  money,  too,  Sarah." 

"But  it  hasn't  made  me  too  proud  to  do  my  work, 
sir." 

"Bravo,  Sarah!  Well  answered,"  said  Mr.  Welby. 
"That's  the  right  sentiment." 

Primrose  with  her  elbows  on  the  table  and  her  sharp 
little  chin  in  her  hands  spoke  meditatively,  almost 
dreamily.  "If  a  fairy  came  to  me,  I  know  what  I 
should  ask  for." 

"Oh,  we'd  all  be  ready  for  the  fairy,"  said  Violet. 

"No  doubt  you  would,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "How  you 
all  harp  on  the  same  silly  string!"  Then  determining 
to  humour  their  nonsense,  he  asked  Amable  Price  what 
she  would  say  to  the  fairy. 

"I  should  ask  for  a  kinder  master." 

"He's  not  your  master,"  said  Jack  warmly. 

"Then  a  kinder  employer." 

Mr.  Welby  turned  to  his  wife  and  looked  at  her 
fondly. 

"And  what  would  you  have  to  ask  for?" 


42  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Oh,  for  so  many  many  things,"  said  Mrs.  Welby  in 
a  quiet  intense  voice. 

"Well,  that's  a  staggerer,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  and  he 
sat  back  in  his  chair  and  stared  at  her.  His  broad 
face  had  flushed  from  surprise  and  pain.  But  she, 
quite  unconscious  of  how  deeply  she  had  wounded  him 
by  her  unexpected  answer,  was  looking  fixedly  at  the 
tablecloth.  Her  whole  aspect  was  that  of  a  person 
who  has  passed  from  the  world  of  external  facts  to  the 
world  of  dreams  and  imaginings ;  carried  away  by  her 
thoughts,  she  had  left  this  snug  familiar  room  and  was 
perhaps  already  far  away.  He  glanced  round  the 
table  and  saw,  although  less-  clearly  significant,  a 
similar  expression  on  the  faces  of  the  others.  They 
were  all  of  them  engrossed  by  their  own  thoughts.  No- 
body spoke  or  even  seemed  about  to  speak,  and  during 
this  second  long  pause  the  silence  became  strangely 
oppressive  to  Mr.  Welby. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  said  at  last.  "An  angel  pass- 
ing— or  somebody  going  over  our  graves?" 

"No,"  said  Sarah,  thinking  he  addressed  her,  but 
not  altogether  catching  his  words.  "No,  sir,  I  think 
it's  a  telegram.  Yes,  there's  the  front  door  bell.  I 
saw  the  boy  at  the  gate." 

She  went  out  and  returned  with  the  telegram. 

"He's  waiting  for  an  answer." 

Mr.  Welby  put  on  his  spectacles,  read  the  telegram, 
and  made  an  exclamation  of  disgust  or  annoyance. 
"Botheration.  Look  here,  mother,  it's  from  your 
cousin  Nicholas.  He's  coming  this  evening.  .  .  .  No 
answer,  Sarah." 

"Well,  dear  me,  really,  upon  my  word,"  said  Mrs. 


CONTENTMENT  43 

Welby,  showing  that  the  news  roused  her  from  her 
musings  in  no  very  pleasant  manner. 

"There,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  taking  off  his  spectacles 
and  wiping  them  before  he  put  them  away ;  "there,  my 
dear  Carillon,  there,  if  you  like,  is  a  rich  man  who 
doesn't  make  much  use  of  his  money." 

"He  doesn't  use  it  for  his  cousins,  anyhow,"  said 
Jack. 

"Nor  for  himself,  either,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "Did 
you  ever  see  him  in  a  new  suit  of  clothes  or  a  decent 
topper?" 

"Nicholas  is  eccentric,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 

"He's  mean"  said  her  husband  firmly.  "He's  the 
meanest  person  I've  ever  encountered  in  all  my  expe- 
rience. And  when  you  think,  Carillon,  that  he  could 
buy  up  this  road  from  end  to  end." 

"A  landed  proprietor?" 

"No.  Holds  controlling  interest  in  some  Austrian 
sulphur  mines  and  subsidiary  enterprises.  Oh,  I  don't 
put  him  forward  as  a  millionaire — but  the  old  beggar 

•*•  oo 

must  be  worth  anything  between  a  hundred  to  two 
hundred  thousand  pounds." 

"Four  to  eight  thousand  a  year,"  said  Mr.  Carillon 
sympathetically. 

"And,  I  suppose,  spends " 

"Half  nothing,"  said  Jack. 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Carillon,  "that  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  the  old  gentleman,  have  I?" 

"No,"  said  Violet.  "He  has  left  us  alone  lately. 
He  only  comes  to  us  from  time  to  time,  and,  really, 
we  don't  know  why  he  troubles  to  do  it." 

"He  just  sits  over  there  by  the  corner  of  the  side- 


44  A  LITTLE  MORE 

board,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  "and  never  opens  his  mouth, 
except  to  sip  some  whisky  and  water." 

Then  in  unsparing  terms  they  all  told  Mr.  Carillon 
of  the  varied  shabbinesses  and  meannesses  of  this  eccen- 
tric cousin.  Age  had  not  softened  him.  He  grew 
harder  every  year.  Knowing  that  he  had  long  since 
quarrelled  with  every  one  connected  to  him,  feeling 
compassionate  because  of  his  utter  loneliness,  they  had 
in  the  beginning  welcomed  him  here  cordially  and  affec- 
tionately. The  girls  and  Jack  had  paid  him  many 
little  attentions,  trying  to  soothe  and  cheer  him  by 
their  sprightly  ways — in  a  word,  trying  to  win  his 
heart.  But  it  was  all  no  use.  He  neither  recognized 
their  kind  intentions  nor  the  effort  that  they  cost. 
Now  for  a  long  time  they  had  given  him  up  as  a  bad 
job.  He  might  be  as  neglectful  as  he  pleased,  and  they 
.did  not  care.  On  his  occasional  visits  they  supported 
his  presence  as  best  they  could ;  they  were  still  genuinely 
sorry  for  him,  but  they  could  not  any  more  pretend 
to  be  fond  of  him.  It  made  no  difference  to  him,  of 
course,  for  he  had  shown  plainly  that  he  neither  courted 
nor  valued  their  affection. 

Mrs.  Welby  alone  defended  his  character,  and  the 
emphasis  she  employed  showed  that  she  was  only  doing 
it  from  a  sense  of  duty. 

"We  must  be  fair,"  she  said.  "In  justice  we  must 
remember  that  he  owes  us  nothing.  He  is  not  a  blood 
relation.  We  have  no  right  to  expect  anything  from 
him." 

"But  perhaps,"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  "although  he  is 
so  neglectful  now,  he  may  perhaps  intend  to  show  his 
appreciation  of  your  kindness  at  a  later  date?" 

"The  date's  a  mighty  long  time  coming." 


CONTENTMENT  45 

"I  mean,  after  he  is  gone,"  said  Carillon  hopefully. 
"He  may  intend  to  make  it  up  to  you  then." 

"Oh,  Lord,  no !  We've  no  expectations  of  that  sort. 
Not  much,"  and  Mr.  Welby  laughed  rather  bitterly. 
"You  don't  know  him,  Carillon.  Years  ago  we  used 
to  tell  him  the  children's  birthdays — just  for  fun — and 
he'd  write  them  down  in  his  pocket-book.  But  not  a 
box  of  sweets — not  a  word — when  the  birthdays  came 
round.  And  the  same  thing  at  Christmas.  Not  a 
penny  card  of  good  wishes !" 

"He's  Primrose's  godfather,"  said  Mrs.  Welby ;  "but 
you'll  scarcely  credit  it,  he  even  came  to  the  christening 
empty-handed." 

"Well,  really?" 

"But  mother,"  said  Primrose,  with  an  unmirthful 
laugh,  "don't  forget  the  famous  present  from  Naples." 

"Lor5,  no,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "Fetch  it,  Prim,  and 
show  it  to  him." 

Primrose  ran  into  the  drawing-room,  and  came  back 
with  a  wretched  little  vase.  It  was  handed  round  the 
table  while  they  all  mocked  at  it. 

"Replica  in  miniature  of  a  Pompeiian  urn,  I  suppose," 
said  Carillon,  handling  the  thing. 

"Neatly  encrusted  with  lava,"  said  Jack  scoffingly. 
"Very  chaste  and  choice." 

"And  that  is  the  only  present  the  old  gentleman  ever 
gave  you?"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  returning  it  to  its  owner. 
"Well,  really !" 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Jack,  "he's  hot  stuff — as  a  god- 
father." 

"Never  mind,  Prim,"  said  Mr.  Welby  firmly.  "We 
don't  want  his  presents.  No,"  and  he  rose  from  the 
table  and  stretched  himself,  "we  don't  want  presents  or 


46  A  LITTLE  MORE 

anything  else  from  him.  We  can  stand  on  our  own 
legs,  I'm  glad  to  say,  without  assistance  from  him  or 
any  one  else." 

Primrose  was  taking  her  horrid  little  vase  back  to  the 
drawing-room;  but  her  mother  stopped  her,  and  told 
her  to  put  it  on  the  sideboard,  where  their  visitor 
would  see  it. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  a  derisive  chuckle,  "stick 
it  up  as  conspicuous  as  you  can — so's  he  can't  miss 
seeing  it.  Leave  it  there,  to  shame  him — eh,  mother? 
Good  idea  of  yours." 

"No,  that  wasn't  my  idea  at  all,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 
"I  think  it  will  gratify  him,  when  he  finds  it  there." 

"Gratify  him?" 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  "I  hate  pretence  quite 
as  much  as  you  do.  But  one  must  behave  in  a  dignified 
and  becoming  manner.  There's  no  sense  in  wounding 
people's  feelings.  If  we  receive  him,  we  can't  do  other- 
wise than  receive  him  properly.  We  have  always  done 
so  till  now,  and  we  must  go  on  doing  so." 

"Oh,  very  well.     I  dare  say  you're  right." 

"He  has  always  been  counted  as  my  cousin.  And  I 
have  my  pride,  as  well  as  you,  yours." 

"Just  so.  But  why  should  you  speak  to  me  like 
that?" 

The  young  people  had  languidly  strolled  to  the  gar- 
den, and  Mr.  Welby,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  followed 
them  as  far  as  the  iron  steps  of  the  verandah.  Some- 
thing of  sharpness  or  latent  irritation  in  his  wife's  tone 
had  wounded  him  again.  For  the  third  time  in  an  hour 
she  had  caused  him  momentary  distress.  He  stood  at 
the  top  of  the  steps,  fumbling  in  a  side  pocket  for  his 
pipe,  and  feeling  uncomfortable,  as  though  the  dinner 


CONTENTMENT  4ff 

had  not  agreed  with  him.  But  as  he  thought  of  it,  he 
understood  that  the  food  had  been  as  good  as  usual; 
it  was  the  conversation  that  had  gone  wrong.  He  had 
sat  down  to  table  in  the  happiest  frame  of  mind ;  indeed 
there  were  valid  reasons  why  to-night  of  all  nights  he 
should  feel  happy  and  contented;  but  then  the  silly 
talk  had  begun,  gradually  getting  upon  his  nerves, 
insidiously  upsetting  him.  He  lit  his  pipe,  took  a  puff 
or  two,  and  realized  that  he  had  terminated  the  meal 
very  abruptly;  he  had  just  broken  up  the  pa^rty,  with- 
out the  customary  polite  and  hospitable  words — with- 
out apology  to  the  guests — without  having  grace  after 
meat.  He  should  have  remembered  at  least  to  ask 
Carillon  to  say  grace.  He  roused  himself,  and  spoke 
loudly  and  cheerily  to  the  young  people  on  the  lawn. 

"Well,  the  storm  seems  blowing  over  again.  Are  you 
going  to  have  your  game?*' 

"Yes,  come  on,  you  slackers,"  said  Jack.  "Carillon, 
we'll  give  you  your  revenge." 

"Delighted,"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  and  he  spoke  to 
Violet  softly  and  tenderly.  "That  is,  if  you'll  consent 
to  be  my  partner." 

"If  you'll  put  up  with  me,"  said  Violet.  "I  play  so 
badly." 

"Oh,  for  better  for  worse,"  said  Jack.  "Croquet's 
like  marriage.  No  change  of  partners.  .  .  .  Amabel! 
Try  your  hand  this  time,  won't  you?" 

"No,  I'll  watch.     Play  with  Primrose." 

"Then  come  on,  Prim." 

Mr.  Welby  smiled.  He  was  nearly  himself  again 
now.  And  he  went  back  to  the  dining  room  to  find 
his  wife  and  have  a  quiet  chat  with  her.  He  felt  a 
craving  to  sweep  away  the  slightest  cloud  of  misunder- 


48  A  LITTLE  MORE 

standing.  But  Mrs.  Welby  was  busily  engaged  with 
Sarah  in  clearing  the  dinner-table. 

"My  dear,  I  want  you." 

"One  minute,'*  said  Mrs.  Welby.  "I'm  just  finishing. 
There,  Sarah,  two  make  shorter  work  than  one.'* 

"Yes,  but  can't  she " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Welby;  "but  it's  her  evening  out. 
I'm  only  helping  to  get  through  with  it  the  quicker. 
Now,  Sarah,  off  you  go,"  and  she  continued  to  load 
Sarah's  tray  with  glasses  and  napkins. 

Mr.  Welby  sat  in  his  armchair,  the  only  armchair 
that  the  room  contained,  and  watched  them  bustling  to 
and  fro.  Sarah  carried  out  the  loaded  tray  and 
returned  with  it  empty.  They  loaded  it  again,  they 
put  things  in  drawers  of  the  sideboard,  they  opened  or 
shut  the  sideboard  doors.  There  seemed  an  immense 
lot  of  work  to  be  done  in  removing  all  signs  of  dinner 
and  making  the  room  neat  and  tidy.  But  at  last  they 
had  finished ;  Sarah  was  going  out  with  an  empty  tray 
— and  that  of  course  meant  the  end. 

She  paused  at  the  door  and  pointed  to  the  sideboard. 

"The  whisky's  in  there,  ma'am.  But  there's  not 
more  than  half  a  siphon  of  soda  water." 

"He  doesn't  take  it,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "He  prefers 
water.  Run  along." 

Sarah,  going,  turned  with  suddenness,  and  spoke 
gravely : 

"Ma'am!  What  about  all  that  linen  and  the  cur- 
tains?" 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Welby  plaintively.  "I'd  for- 
gotten. Where  are  they?" 

"I've  put  'em  all — laid  out — in  the  spare  room. 
Mind  you,  it's  a  lot,  ma'am.  They  fairly  fill  the  room." 


CONTENTMENT  49 

"All  right.  I'll  go  up  and  tackle  the  job  directly. 
I'll  get  through  it  somehow.  .  .  .  Now,  dear.  Did  you 
wish  to  speak  to  me?" 

She  was  pulling  a  chair  across  the  room,  and  he  asked 
her  to  draw  it  close  and  sit  beside  him ;  but  she  said  she 
dared  not  sit  down,  with  all  the  linen  weighing  on  her 
mind.  She  placed  the  chair  at  the  corner  of  the  side- 
board, in  readiness  for  the  expected  visitor.  Then  she 
came  behind  the  armchair  and  laid  a  hand  on  her  hus- 
band's shoulder.  He  patted  the  hand  affectionately. 

"Our  clerical  friend  and  Violet!"  he  said.  "Eh? 
That  seems  to  be  going  exactly  the  way  you  antic- 
ipated?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  without  elation.  "Yes,  I 
suppose  we  can  take  that  as  settled.  He  hasn't  spoken 
to  you,  has  he?" 

"No,  I  haven't  given  him  a  chance — purposely." 

"He'll  speak  soon.  Violet  asked  me  again  to  beg  you 
to  be  nice  to  him.  Of  course  she  meant,  he  needed  a 
little  encouragement  from  you  as  well  as  from  her 
before  he  would  say  anything  definite." 

"Yes,  that's  all  mighty  fine,  but  before  I'm  called  on 
to  give  him  an  answer  I  want  to  get  our  bearings  fixed. 
You're  satisfied?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  still  without  the  slight- 
est sign  of  elation.  "Oh,  yes.  I  admit  I  sometimes 
wish  he  wasn't  quite  so "  and  she  hesitated. 

"Quite  so  what?" 

"Well,  I  do  sometimes  wish  he  had  a  little  more  dash 
and  go." 

"Dash  and  go !"  Mr.  Welby  echoed  the  words  in 
blank  surprise.  "But  he's  a  curate!" 

"I  know,"  and  Mrs.  Welby  spoke  reflectingly.     "I 


50  A  LITTLE  MORE 

know.  That's  true.  But  there's  so  much  powerful, 
almost  commanding  character  in  Violet."  Then  she 
resumed  a  tone  of  cheerfulness.  "Yes,  that's  all  right. 
Yes,  I  am  satisfied.  It's  the  other  thing  that  bothers 
me." 

"Jack  and  Miss  Price?" 

"Yes,  I'm  disappointed  with  what  I  see  coming  there ; 
for  I  believe  it  is  coming,  in  spite  of  the  many  hints 
I've  dropped." 

"You  don't  take  to  her?  She's  a  lady,  all  said  and 
done.  Pretty  little  thing,  too." 

"I  know.  But  she's  not  good  enough  for  Jack. 
She's  in  rather  a  false  position  also.  Jack  feels  that 
himself.  It  is  saddening  him.  You  know  he  used  to 
be  all  gaiety — keeping  up  all  our  spirits." 

"Oh,  he  didn't  seem  in  such  bad  form  at  dinner." 

"Acting,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  with  admiration,  "just 
acting!  He's  so  brave.  He's  very  brave,  Jack  is. 
No  one  who  doesn't  know  can  guess  the  real  good  in 
Jack.  He's  splendid,  at  heart." 

"Well,  exactly." 

"But  it  would  be  dreadful  if  he  took  a  wrong  turn, 
just  for  want  of  the  advantages  he  deserves." 

"If  you  don't  think  she's  the  right  sort  for  him,  the 
sooner  we  stop  it  the  better." 

"Of  course  they're  very  much  in  love  with  each 
other." 

"They  are?" 

"You  can  see  it  in  their  faces.  She  follows  him  with 
her  eyes.  There  are  times  when  I'm  almost  afraid  of 
their  doing  something  foolish." 

"How  d'you  mean?" 

"Taking  the  law  into  their  own  hands.     Ah  well," 


CONTENTMENT  51 

and  Mrs.  Welby  gave  a  long  sigh.  "I  suppose  it  is 
destiny.  We  don't  choose.  What  we  have  to  do  we 
must." 

As  if  to  illustrate  the  truth  of  these  words,  Sarah 
appeared  in  the  doorway  reminding  her  that  she  had  to 
do  the  linen.  Sarah  was  dressed  in  hat  and  walking 
costume,  on  the  point  of  going  out. 

"The  iron's  hot,  ma'am,  and  I've  put  the  marking  ink 
on  the  mantelpiece.  You'll  find  all  those  small  towels 
spread  over  the  sofa.  The  antimacassars  are  on  the 
floor."  And  observing  Mrs.  Welby's  weary  air,  the 
good  creature  had  one  of  her  usual  generous  impulses. 
"Ma'am,  shall  I  stop  to  help  you  ?" 

"No,  no.  My  kind  Sarah.  I  wouldn't  hear  of  it. 
Go  at  once." 

And  almost  regretfully  Sarah  went  out. 

"Another  thing  I  wanted  to  speak  of  was  this,"  said 
Mr.  Welby.  "I'd  no  chance  to  tell  you  this  afternoon. 
But  I  did  that  bit  of  business  before  I  came  home  to-day. 
Told  'em  to  buy  the  Trust  Stock,  three  hundred  and 
fifty  of  it — you  remember,  the  other  one!" 

"That's  the  one  with  the  smaller  interest?" 

"Yes.  You  know  the  old  maxim.  High  interest 
means  poor  security.  That's  our  watchword,  isn't  it  ?" 
And  he  said  the  word  with  relish.  "Security!  Well, 
we've  got  it,  old  girl.  We're  secure  in  our  competence. 
To-day  I've  reached  the  mark  I  always  set  myself. 
Five  hundred  a  year  put  by,  that  nothing  and  nobody 
can  touch." 

Standing  behind  his  chair,  she  looked  down  at  the 
pencilled  figures  on  a  half  sheet  of  note-paper. 

"Allowing  the  assessable  value  of  this  house,  our 
invested  capital  yields  the  five  hundred — and  three 


52  A  LITTLE  MORE 

pounds  odd — per  annum.  I  could  retire  to-morrow  if 
I  wanted  to." 

"And  so  you  ought.  No  one  has  earned  his  rest 
better  than  you  have." 

"Don't  feel  to  want  it  yet." 

"When  you  do  retire,"  said  Mrs.  Welby  meditatively, 
"I  suppose  there's  no  chance  of  their  making  an  excep- 
tion in  your  special  case,  and  giving  you  some  sort  of 
pension?" 

"No,  certainly  not.  That'd  be  beyond  our  bargain. 
I've  enjoyed  my  high  salary  and  the  commissions,  all 
through  my  service,  according  to  the  firm's  system. 
They  can't  pay  twice  over." 

"No,  of  course  not.     I  was  only  wondering." 

"Besides "     And  he  got  up  and  walked  about  the 

room.  "Living  in  our  own  freehold  house,  with  means 
of  our  very  own!  It's  what  we  aimed  at — what  I 
promised  you  I'd  reach  one  day.  Well,  we're  there. 
I've  got  you  there."  And  he  looked  at  her,  expecting 
the  usual  little  outburst  of  mingled  praise  and  grat- 
itude. But  to-night  it  was  not  forthcoming. 

"Yes,"  she  said  wistfully.  "It  was  only  Mr.  Carillon 
set  me  thinking.  Something  he  said.  How  a  small 
addition  sometimes " 

"Oh,  bother  that,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  disappointed 
and  crestfallen.  "What  do  you  want?  Isn't  it 
enough  ?" 

"Yes,  for  ourselves,  ample;  but  for  them "  and 

she  glanced  in  the  direction  of  the  garden.  "It  is  only 
for  them  that  I  ever  wish  for  more." 

"But  in  what  way?" 

"Well,  if  we  could  have  sent  Violet  to  Paris — to 
finish  her." 


CONTENTMENT  53 

"Paris  would  finish  her — or  anybody  else,"  said  Mr. 
Welby,  trying  to  hide  his  mortification  under  a  tone  of 
ponderous  jocularity. 

"And  if  we  could  send  Primrose  to  Vienna  for  music." 

"Send  her  to  the  moon  for  green  cheese." 

"One's  only  young  once.  And  youth's  the  time  that 
money  can  do  so  much.  They  never  complain;  but 
they  must  see  it  as  plainly  as  I  do — how  their  little 
pleasures,  hopes,  and  chances  are  sacrificed." 

"Sacrificed!" 

"There's  a  ball  to-night  that  Primrose  might  have 
gone  to.  Kensington  Town  Hall!  She'd  have  met 
that  young  Perkins.  He's  well  off;  he's  a  nice  boy. 
He  was  taken  with  her,  and  was  ready  to  follow  it  up. 
Naturally  Prim  wanted  to  go  to  the  dance." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  let  her  go?" 

"My  dear,  how  could  I?  I  tried  my  hardest  to 
manage  it.  I  went  into  everything:  the  alterations  to 
her  dress,  and  all  the  little  odds  and  ends;  and  then 
of  course  the  taxicab  to  and  fro — something  for  the 
harpy  in  the  ladies'  cloak-room.  It  couldn't  possibly 
be  done  under  a  couple  of  pounds.  Perhaps  anybody 
would  say  cheap  for  such  a  treat — but  too  expensive 
for  us.  Impossible!  Primrose  came  to  me  and  said: 
'Mother,  it  doesn't  matter.  I  give  it  up.'  If  you  had 
heard  the  way  she  said  it.  It  was  like  a  blow  on  my 
heart." 

Mr.  Welby  resumed  his  seat  in  the  armchair,  and  sat 
looking  at  her.  She  came  to  him,  and  put  her  hands 
on  his  shoulders. 

"I  ought  to  have  kept  all  this  to  myself.  Has  it 
sounded  ungrateful?  Don't  think  that.  Nothing  but 
admiration  and  gratitude  to  you."  She  was  about  to 


54  A  LITTLE  MORE 

stoop  to  kiss  him,  but  she  checked  herself.  "You  ought 
to  buy  yourself  a  new  pipe.  That  old  one  is  becoming 
a  disgrace." 

He  answered  sadly.  "Good  pipes  are  like  good  wives : 
the  older  they  are  the  sweeter  they  become." 

Mrs.  Welby  kissed  him.  "God  bless  you — best  of 
husbands,  best  of  men.  There!  Now  if  you  take  my 
advice,  you'll  have  a  nap,  or  you'll  be  too  tired  to  put 
up  with  Nicholas.  You've  had  a  long  day,  and  driving 
always  fatigues  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  goodness!  That 
linen !"  And  she  hurried  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  IV 

INSTEAD  of  composing  himself  for  sleep  as  he  had 
been  advised,  Mr.  Welby  sat  musing.  His  pipe 
was  out,  and  he  did  not  trouble  to  light  it.  All 
kinds  of  thoughts  were  passing  through  his  mind.  Mrs. 
Welby  had  left  the  door  ajar,  and  presently  he  heard 
voices  outside  in  the  hall.  It  was  Amabel  saying  that 
it  was  time  for  her  to  go,  and  Jack  asking  her  to  wait 
a  few  minutes,  until  he  could  escort  her. 

"No,"  said  Amabel,  "I  shall  be  quite  all  right.  Don't 
leave  the  others.  Please  finish  your  game." 

"Hang  the  game !"  said  Jack.  "We're  all  bored  stiff 
with  it.  Just  wait,  Mab.  I'll  tell  them  to  chuck  it." 

Mr.  Welby  went  to  the  dining  room  door.  "Miss 
Price.  Er — Amabel — a  word."  And  Amabel  came 
shyly  into  the  room. 

Mr.  Welby  looked  hard  at  her,  and  spoke  kindly  but 
abruptly.  "Quite  in  confidence.  You  won't  mind  my 
asking.  Before  you  joined  your  present  employer, 
what  were  you  doing?" 

"The  same  sort  of  work,"  said  Amabel,  "but  with 
somebody  else." 

"And  before  that  you  were  in  a  bonnet  shop,  weren't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"A  ladies'  bonnet  shop?" 

"Yes." 

"Kept  by  ladies  for  ladies  ?" 


55 


56  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Yes." 

"Why  didn't  you  stay  there?" 

"Because,"  said  Amabel,  embarrassed,  but  endeavour- 
ing to  smile,  "well — because  the  shop  failed." 

"Didn't  the  bonnets  pay?" 

"Yes.     But  the  customers  didn't." 

"That  wasn't  very  ladylike  of  them." 

"No,  it  was  rather  inconsiderate." 

"And  this  Mr.  What's-his-name  ?  You  aren't  really 
comfortable  with  him?" 

Amabel  shook  her  head  negatively. 

"How  long  do  you  propose  to  stick  it?" 

"Until  I  can  find  anything  better." 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"About  thirty-five,  I  should  think." 

"Married  man?" 

"No.     Single." 

"Humph!"  And  Mr.  Welby  continued  sympathet- 
ically, but  with  a  certain  coarseness  of  which  he  was 
not  himself  aware.  "Has  it  occurred  to  you — I  don't 
say  it  for  myself,  but  people  might  easily  say  it — that 
you're  in  rather  a  false  position?"  He  looked  even 
harder  at  her,  but  she  did  not  answer.  "I  am  sure 
your  own  delicacy  of  feeling  suggests  objections  to  it." 

"Mr.  Welby,"  said  Amabel,  greatly  distressed,  "I 
can't  afford  to  be  too  delicate.  I  have  to  earn  my 
living  first." 

"Just  so.     But  perhaps  otherwise At  my  age, 

of  course,  I  know  a  good  deal  better  than  you  can  that 
when  men  have  authority  over  attractive  young  women, 
they  don't  always  behave  themselves.  Now  tell  me  can- 
didly—  Is  the  man  nice  to  you  ?" 

Amabel  had  plainly  shown  how  much  she  disliked  the 


CONTENTMENT  57 

conversation,  and  she  now  endeavoured  to  end  it.  "I 
see  what  you  mean.  No.  I  have  nothing  of  that  sort 
to  complain  of.  If  I  must  be  quite  truthful — yes,  I 
did  feel  uncomfortable,  because  I  thought  there  was — 
well,  the  annoyance — or  the  danger — you  are  thinking 
of.  But  that's  over  and  done  with.  It's  all  the  other 
way  now.  He  is  more  inclined  to  bully  me  than  to 
make  love  to  me." 

"That  may  be  only  his  artfulness.  He  may  be 
beginning  a  new  game  like  that." 

Amabel  was  almost  in  tears.  "Oh,  Mr.  Welby,"  she 
said  piteously,  "don't  make  me  discontented  with  my 
life.  It's  hard  enough,  anyhow." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Welby  kindly,  "I  only 
meant " 

But  while  they  talked,  Jack  had  withdrawn  himself 
from  the  game,  and  through  the  open  door  he  had  over- 
heard their  last  few  words. 

"Father,"  he  said  decisively,  "you  have  touched  a 
sore  spot,  and  I'm  glad  you  have  done  so.  For  she 
knows  it  is  my  wish  that  she  should  chuck  it." 

"Steady,  steady,"  said  his  father.  "Your  wish, 
indeed!  What's  it  got  to  do  with  you?" 

"Everything,"  said  Jack. 

"Not  so  fast.  Not  so  fast.  No,  this  won't  do. 
You  and  I  must  have  a  talk,  my  lad,  before  this  goes 
any  further." 

Amabel  spoke  with  inoffensive  dignity.  "If  you're 
going  to  talk  about  me,  do  you  mind  waiting  until  I 
have  gone?  Good-night,  Mr.  Welby.  Please  thank 
Mrs.  Welby  for  me.  .  .  .  No,  Jack,  don't  come  with 
me." 

"I'll  come  as  far  as  the  trams." 


58  A  LITTLE  MOKE 

And  as  they  went  out,  Mr.  Welby  heard  her  saying: 
"It  isn't  in  the  least  necessary.  I  am  quite  able  to 
take  care  of  myself.  You  had  much  better  let  me  go 
alone." 

Mr.  Welby  sat  down  again,  looking  at  the  open  door 
and  thinking.  From  the  garden  the  sound  of  his 
daughters'  voices  came  faintly,  with  an  occasional  mur- 
mur from  Mr.  Carillon.  Then  a  noisier  music  burst 
forth,  as  a  piano  organ  at  a  little  distance  up  the  road 
began  to  roll  out  a  medley  of  popular  tunes.  Then, 
after  a  little  while,  the  girls  and  Mr.  Carillon  came 
into  the  hall,  and  Mr.  Welby  listened  to  what  they 
were  saying. 

Carillon  spoke  tenderly  of  being  compelled  to  tear 
himself  away.  He  had  directions  to  give  at  the  vicarage 
before  he  went  on  to  the  Boys'  Brigade.  Violet  sug- 
gested that  she  and  her  sister  should  walk  with  him  as 
far  as  the  church.  "You'll  come,  Primrose,  won't 
you?" 

"No,  I  won't,"  said  Primrose.  "Two  are  company 
and  three  are  none." 

"Don't  be  silly,"  said  Violet.  "You  know  you  are 
wanted.  Do  please  come." 

"No."  And  Primrose's  voice  sounded  queerly  and 
harshly.  "Vi,  don't  you  see  I'm  not  up  to  it?" 

"Poor  old  dear,"  said  Violet,  in  a  feeling  tone.  "Poor 
Primrose — I  understand."  And  she  said  something 
more,  but  her  voice  was  suddenly  drowned  by  loud 
melody.  The  piano  organ  had  now  moved  close  to  the 
house,  and  it  was  banging  out  an  opening  to  a  popular 
waltz. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  as  the  strains  grew  milder, 


CONTENTMENT  59 

"the  Chocolate  Soldier  waltz."     And  Primrose  made  an 
exclamation  that  was  like  a  cry. 

"Poor  darling,"  said  Violet.  "I  can  read  your 
thoughts.  Poor,  poor  old  Prim!  That  is  what  you 
would  have  been  hearing  now." 

"Yes,"  gasped  Primrose,  "it  would  be  just  begin- 
ning," and  she  burst  into  a  violent  sobbing  fit,  and 
came  into  the  dining-room. 

"Bless  me !"  said  Mr.  Welby,  jumping  up.  "What's 
the  matter  with  you?  Don't  go  on  like  this.  Violet! 
Here!  What's  the  matter  with  her?" 

Violet  explained  with  sympathetic  gravity.  "It's  a 
ball  at  Kensington  Town  Hall  that  she  might  have  gone 
to." 

"Why  the  devil,  did  you  remind  her  of  it  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Violet,  "it  was  stupid  of  me.  But  she 
heard  that  organ  playing  the  waltz — it  is  still  playing 
it." 

"Send  the  damn  thing  away,"  said  Mr.  Welby 
angrily.  And  he  went  out  to  the  front-door  steps  and 
shouted  in  wrath. 

The  organ  stopped  playing,  and  Mr.  Welby  stood 
there  brandishing  his  arms  and  pointing  down  the  road 
till  its  conductor  had  removed  it  to  a  safe  distance. 
When  he  returned  to  the  hall,  still  fuming,  Violet  was 
following  her  sister  up  the  stairs,  and  she  spoke  over 
her  shoulder  solicitously  to  Mr.  Carillon.  "I  must  see 
to  poor  Primrose.  She'll  cry  herself  to  sleep.  I  shan't 
wait  for  that.  I'll  be  down  directly.  Don't  go  with- 
out me." 

"Excuse  my  big  D,"  said  Mr.  Welby  apologetically 
to  his  guest.  "It  completely  upset  me,"  and  he  contin- 
ued indignantly:  "What  right  have  they  to  come 


60  A  LITTLE  MORE 

under  one's  windows  annoying  one?  Seem  to  think  the 
street  belongs  to  them.  I  shall  ask  for  police  protec- 
tion if  I  have  much  more  of  it.  But  now — come  in — 
sit  down.  What  were  we  talking  about?" 

"Mr.  Welby,"  said  the  young  man,  "I  am  poor  in 
words  to  thank  you  for  your  hospitality." 

"Don't  mention  it." 

"You  don't  know  what  a  bright  spot  this  house  forms 
in  my  life.  It  is  not  only  what  every  one  must  feel, 
that  peace  and  calm  reign  in  it,  it  is —  Will  you  allow 
me  to  shut  the  door?" 

"By  all  means." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  after  shutting  the  door, 
"what  I  wish  to  speak  of  is  strictly  confidential.  I 
was  saying,  it  is  not  merely  the  tranquil  atmosphere — 
I,  ah,  confess  there  is  another,  a  greater  charm  that 
draws  me  here." 

Mr.  Welby  merely  looked  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"Sir,  I  think  you  can  guess — I  think  I  may  now  with 
propriety  ask  permission  to  continue  my  visits  as — as 
a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  your  elder  daughter — Miss 
Violet," 

"Carillon,  I  can't  pretend  that  this  takes  me  al- 
together by  surprise." 

"No.  Indeed,  I  am  glad  of  that.  My  feelings  are 
of  so  strong  a  nature  that  I  could  not  have  concealed 
them — and  it  would  have  been  very  wrong  of  me  to 
attempt  to  do  so,  in  view  of  the  frankness  and  cordiality 
with  which  I  have  been  received  by  you.  But,  Mr. 
Welby,  you  will  of  course  now  expect  me  to  make  some 
statement  as  to  my  position — I  mean,  my  financial 
position." 

"Well,  yes,  that  may  be  as  well." 


CONTENTMENT  61 

"But  it  is  just  this  very  point  that  I  approach  with 
the  greatest  misgivings.  My  private  means  are  a  neg- 
ligible quantity.  Preferment  will  undoubtedly  come  to 
me,  in  due  course.  Without  vanity  I  can  say  there 
really  is  no  doubt,  Mr.  Welby,  that  my  circumstances 
must  eventually  improve,  until  they  are  very  far  more 
satisfactory  than  they  are  at  present." 

"Oh,  well—" 

"Yes,  indeed.  But  if  you  consent — as  I  hope  you 
will — it  may  be  a  long  engagement — and  in  this  I  think 
of  her  rather  than  selfishly  of  myself — it  may  be  a  time 
of  weary  waiting,  unless — well,  unless — "  And  Mr. 
Carillon  made  a  vague  gesture  with  his  hands. 

"Unless  what?" 

"Unless  you  can  make  some  small  provision  for  your 
daughter." 

"No,  I  can't."  Mr.  Welby  had  risen  from  his  arm- 
chair, and  he  spoke  loudly.  "My  position  is  this.  I've 
worked  all  my  life ;  I  myself  had  to  wait  until  I'd  earned 
sufficient  to  support  Mrs.  Welby;  I've  brought  up  my 
children,  given  them  a  liberal  education;  and  I  say, 
damn  it  all — " 

"Oh,  please." 

"I  apologize.  But  I  say,  I  have  done  all  I  could, 
and  I  can't  do  more." 

"That,"  said  Carillon  sadly,  "makes  our  future  very 
doubtful.  But  you  do  not  forbid  my  visits?  This 
house  is  truly  a  bright  spot  in  my  life.  If  I  may  feel 
that  Violet  and  I  are  regularly  affianced  it  will,  I  feel 
sure,  give  me  more  confidence  in  myself.  It  will  stim- 
ulate me  to  new  hope,  fresh  courage." 

He  was  speaking  now  in  a  manly,  earnest  style,  and 
the  faint  suggestion  of  the  pulpit  voice  which  even 


62  A  LITTLE  MORE 

natural  emotion  could  not  altogether  obliterate  would 
not  have  rendered  him  ludicrous  to  any  but  an  unfeel- 
ing critic.  He  might  have  said  a  good  deal  more,  but 
he  was  stopped  by  the  reappearance  of  Violet. 

"I  am  ready,"  said  Violet.  "Oh,  have  I  interrupted 
you?"  And  she  looked  anxiously  from  one  to  the  other. 

"No,  it  doesn't  matter,"  said  her  father  glumly. 
"We  have  finished.  Good-night,  Carillon." 

They  went  out  together,  and  Mr.  Welby,  standing 
by  the  window,  watched  them  walk  down  the  road. 
They  moved  slowly,  disconsolately,  and  did  not  speak  to 
Jack  when  they  met  him  sauntering  back  towards  the 
house. 

"Well,  father?"  said  Jack,  as  he  came  into  the  dining- 
room. 

"Ha!     So  there  you  are." 

"Yes,  here  I  am." 

Mr.  Welby  had  begun  irritably,  if  not  angrily,  but 
something  in  his  son's  tone  checked  him.  He  sat  down, 
and  when  he  spoke  again  it  was  with  his  customary 
kindness. 

"My  boy,  I  am  sorry.  I  am  sorry,  of  course,  but  all 
this  with  Miss  Price  doesn't  seem  to  me  very  hopeful." 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  said  Jack  bitterly.  "Not  a  gleam 
of  hope  in  it,  unless  Number  612854  wins  the  sweep — 
or  a  fairy  comes  down  the  chimney." 

"What !  You  are  all  harping  on  the  same  string. 
You,  too,  want  money  to  drop  out  of  the  sky.  Jack, 
it's  a  grievous  mistake.  One  must  wait  and  earn  it." 

"How  can  I  help  wanting  money?  Not  for  myself, 
but  for  others !" 

"Ah,  you  all  say  that." 

"Listen,  father,"  and  Jack  went  on,  with  a  strength 


CONTENTMENT  63 

of  emotion  that  he  struggled  almost  fiercely  to  repress. 
Amabel  is  sweet  and  refined — isn't  she? — elegant,  a 
lady  to  her  finger  tips.  I  love  her.  But  the  woman  I 
love  is  at  the  beck  and  call  of  another  man  for  thirty 
shillings  a  week;  and  I  can't  say  to  her,  'Here,  here's 
your  thirty  shillings — your  beggarly  thirty  shillings 
— and  henceforth  look  to  me  only.'  The  mater,  too — 
the  poor  old  mater.  Think  of  her.  The  household 
drudge — sixty  years  of  age,  and  toiling  like  a  lodging- 
house  slavey." 

"Oh,  bosh !" 

"What  is  she  doing  now — after  the  long  day?  Up- 
stairs, in  that  fusty  room,  ironing  towels  and  sheets ! 
My  mother!"  And  Jack,  ceasing  to  struggle, 
completely  let  himself  go.  "I  said  I  only  wanted  money 
for  others.  That  is  a  lie.  I  want  it  for  myself.  You 
say,  Wait;  but  do  you  understand  what  that  means? 
Mab  and  I  love  each  other;  we  are  young.  We  are 
longing  for  each  other.  But  no,  we  are  to  wait — to 
wait — to  wait.  We  are  to  master  our  senses.  That 
is,  I  am.  Mab's  an  angel.  I  am  to  put  ice  on  my 
head,  or  bathe  in  the  Serpentine — cool  the  hot  blood — 
stifle  every  call  of  nature,  every  instinct  of  manhood — 
and  wait.  For  five  pounds  a  week  certain  the  bells 
would  ring.  That  ass  Carillon  would  bless  us,  some- 
one would  throw  the  rice,  and  we  should  go  hand  in 
hand  to  our  snug  little  home — husband  and  wife — 
happy.  Happy  !  .  .  .  But  it  is  wrong  to  want  money, 
wicked  to  envy  rich  people.  I  tell  you,  when  I  read  in 
the  paper  of  my  Lord  This  or  That,  my  Lord  Poop- 
stick,  aged  twenty-three,  marrying  his  Lady  Honey- 
suckle, aged  twenty-two,  I  am  bursting  with  envy.  I 
think :  What  have  I  done  that  a  curse  should  fall  upon 


64  A  LITTLE  MORE 

me?  Fate.  It's  what  the  books  always  said.  I  am 
half  and  half,  mid-way  up  the  scale,  bound  to  wear  a 
black  coat.  I  have  lost  the  freedom  of  the  peasant, 
and  not  gained  the  power  of  the  noble." 

"Jack — my  boy — my  dear  boy,"  said  his  father 
brokenly  and  huskily,  "when  you  talk  like  this,  you 
knock  down  all  my  house  of  cards." 

"Heaven  knows  I  don't  blame  you"  said  Jack.  "I 
am  quarrelling  with  Fate,  only  with  Fate."  He  came 
close  to  Mr.  Welby,  clutched  his  hand,  and  squeezed 
it  convulsively.  "Whoever's  fault  it  is,  it  isn't  yours, 
dear  old  chap.  You — you're  just  a  brick."  And  he 
hurried  from  the  room. 

Mr.  Welby  sat  thinking. 


CHAPTER  V 

MRS.  WELBY  had  come  downstairs  to  heat 
her  iron  again;  she  opened  the  door  cau- 
tiously, and  peeped  into  the  room  to  see  if 
he  was  asleep. 

"Have  you  had  your  forty  winks?" 

"No,  I  haven't." 

**I  won't  disturb  you.  Primrose  is  lying  down.  A 
little  hysterical — but  she'll  do  all  right  now.  Oh! 
Something  I'm  forgetting!"  She  came  into  the  room; 
and,  kneeling  by  the  sideboard,  brought  out  a  whisky 
bottle  and  a  glass.  These  she  placed  with  a  carafe  on 
the  corner  of  the  sideboard.  "Now  he'll  find  them 
where  he  always  looks  for  them.  I  do  wish  you  could 
have  your  nap." 

"I've  been  thinking,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  "turning 
things  over  in  my  mind,"  and  he  spoke  hesitatingly. 
"Look  here.  An  idea.  It  has  occurred  to  me — 
Couldn't  you  use  your  influence  and  get  something  out 
of  him?  Not  for  us,  of  course,  but  for  them.  Put  it 
to  him  that  he  really  ought  to  for  the  girls'  sake.  A 
dress  allowance!  Fifty  pounds  apiece?" 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  ask  him." 

"Why  not?"  said  Mr.  Welby  eagerly. 

"I  simply  couldn't." 

"I  don't  see  what  prevents  you." 

"My  feelings  prevent  me." 

"What  feelings?" 

"Pride." 

65 


66  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"But  I  think  that's  false  pride,"  said  Mr.  Welby, 
with  increased  eagerness.  "I  can't  see  any  harm  in 
accepting  what  he'd  never  miss.  I've  thought  too,  in 
these  last  five  minutes,  of  what  you  said  when  you  put 
your  foot  down  about  treating  him  with  consideration 
and  respect.  Maybe,  I've  gone  on  the  wrong  tack  with 
him.  Too  independent  and  offhand.  You  try  him  on 
another  line — drop  a  few  hints — sound  him — what?" 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  shaking  her  head.  "Oh, 
no."  And  she  added  reproachfully :  "It  isn't  like  you 
to  suggest  it." 

"I  suppose  it  isn't."  And  Mr.  Welby  stretched  his 
arms.  "But  I've  been  a  bit  upset — in  my  thoughts." 

"Why  can't  you  take  your  nap  ?" 

"I'll  try,"  and  he  settled  himself  down  in  the  arm- 
chair and  shut  his  eyes.  Mrs.  Welby  stood  looking 
at  him,  and  when  he  spoke  again  his  tone  was  already 
drowsy.  "Have  you  finished  upstairs?" 

"No,  scarcely  begun.  But  I'll  have  finished  by  bed- 
time." 

"Don't  work  so  hard,"  he  said  sleepily.  "I  hate  to 
see  you  working." 

"But  I  must,"  she  said  in  a  low,  gentle  tone,  and 
she  went  out  softly,  talking  to  herself  rather  than  to 
him.  "I  must  keep  at  it  now.  Such  a  state  as  I've 
got  that  room  into.  It'll  take  poor  Sarah  a  week  to 
put  it  straight." 

Mr.  Welby  slept. 

The  kitchen  fire  was  low  and  the  iron  heated  slowly ; 
then,  when  Mrs.  Welby  judged  that  it  was  sufficiently 
hot,  she  found  herself  unable  to  pick  it  up  for  want  of 
the  little  pad  with  which  to  grasp  its  handle.  She 


CONTENTMENT  67 

must  have  left  this  necessary  adjunct  on  the  sideboard. 
She  went  softly  back  to  the  dining-room. 

The  daylight  had  begun  to  fade  fast  now ;  outside  in 
the  roadway  lamps  were  being  lit;  in  the  quiet  house 
the  shadows  deepened.  As  she  stood  at  the  dining- 
room  door,  turning  the  door  handle  with  the  utmost  pre- 
caution, so  as  not  to  awake  her  husband,  she  was 
surprised  by  hearing  his  voice.  He  was  not  asleep  then : 
he  had  somebody  in  there  talking  with  him.  She  opened 
the  door  without  any  further  care,  and  went  in. 

But  there  was  nobody  there  except  her  husband. 
For  a  moment  Mrs.  Welby  had  a  queer  uncanny  sort 
of  feeling,  as  she  stood  there  in  the  dusky  room,  find- 
ing it  empty,  and  seeing  Mr.  Welby  sound  asleep  in  his 
arm-chair.  How  very  odd !  He  must  have  been  talk- 
ing to  himself  in  his  sleep. 

She  stood  by  the  chair  observing  him.  There  was 
nothing  visible  or  audible  to  disturb  his  repose ;  and  yet 
quite  obviously  this  slumber,  although  deep,  was  far 
from  being  tranquil  or  refreshing.  He  made  restless 
little  movements,  he  muttered  and  groaned  faintly.  He 
was  dreaming.  She  watched  him  anxiously  and  nerv- 
ously, noticing  how  his  hands,  one  on  each  knee,  seemed 
to  have  a  tremor  or  flutter,  as  though  in  the  throes  of 
the  dream  he  was  vainly  trying  to  raise  them.  But  if 
so — if  the  dream  was  of  a  distressful  nature — she  had 
better  rouse  him  from  it;  and  she  was  on  the  point  of 
waking  him,  when  suddenly  he  began  to  talk  aloud 
again. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  he  said  rapidly,  "I  wish  for  it." 

Mrs.  Welby  drew  back,  really  for  a  moment  fright- 
ened. The  sound  of  his  voice,  as  it  suddenly  broke  the 
silence  of  the  darkening  room,  had  an  effect  so  strange 


68  A  LITTLE  MORE 

as  almost  to  take  one's  breath  away.  As  always,  when 
people  talk  in  their  sleep,  the  voice  sounded  toneless  and 
expressionless.  If  she  had  not  had  him  beneath  her 
eyes  and  seen  his  lips  moving,  she  would  not  have 
recognized  it  as  her  husband's  voice  at  all.  Yet  it  was 
loud  and  distinct,  with  every  word  fully  articulated. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "give  me  money.  Yes,  money.  Yes, 
that's  my  wish."  And  then  he  himself  threw  off  the 
burden  of  the  dream,  and  staggered  to  his  feet.  He 
rubbed  his  eyes,  and  stood  staring  at  her  in  a  dazed, 
confused  manner. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  "what  is  it?  Don't 
you  feel  well?  You  were  quite  frightening  me." 

"Let  me  have  something  to  drink.  I'm  parched. 
The  whisky.  Let  me  have  some  whisky." 

She  went  to  the  sideboard,  poured  out  some  whisky 
and  water,  and  brought  the  glass  back  to  him. 

"You  were  dreaming?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  after  he  had  drunk.  "Such  a 
dream!"  And  he  tried  to  laugh.  "Your  talk! 
Hanged  if  I  didn't  dream  of  a  fairy  coming  to  me!" 

Mrs.  Welby  laughed  reassuringly.  "Good  fairies 
won't  come  our  way." 

"No,  nor  bad  ones  neither.  But  I  feel  to-night,  if 
the  devil  himself  rang  the  bell,  I'd  make  him  welcome." 

"Don't  say  that,  even  in  joke." 

"I  say  it  in  earnest." 

He  had  finished  his  drink,  and  he  stood  looking  at 
her,  with  the  glass  in  his  hand.  She  was  looking  at 
him  anxiously.  Then  something  made  her  turn  round, 
and,  startled,  she  uttered  an  exclamation.  Mr.  Welby 
turning  started  also,  and  let  the  glass  fall  with  a  tink- 


CONTENTMENT  69 

ling  crash  upon  the  floor.  Their  cousin,  old  Nicholas, 
was  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  room. 

"By  Jove!  you  made  me  jump,"  said  Mr.  Welby. 

"The  front  door  was  open,"  said  Nicholas,  "so  I 
came  in  without  ringing." 


CHAPTER  VI 

HE  was   a   tall,   thin,   elderly   man,   of   sallow 
complexion  and  invalidish  aspect.     After  the 
exchange  of  a  few  stereotyped  civilities  while 
they  were  welcoming  him,  he  went  to  his  customary 
place  by  the  sideboard,  and  sat  there  looking  at  them 
gloomily.     His  voice,  when  he  spoke,  was  toneless  and 
weary. 

"Where's  everybody  ?" 

"They're  somewhere  about,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 
"They'll  be  here  directly — except  Primrose,  who  has 
gone  to  bed  with  a  headache." 

"Headache!  Her  head  oughtn't  to  ache  at  her 
age." 

"No,  but  it's  nothing,"  and  Mrs.  Welby  busied  her- 
self at  the  sideboard.  "You'll  have  some  refreshments," 
and  she  poured  out  whisky. 

"Don't  give  me  soda  water.     Plain  water." 

"I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 

"Soda  water — "  and  he  made  a  gesture  with  his 
hand,  seeming  to  indicate  that  anything  effervescent 
had  a  disastrous  effect  upon  his  inside.  "Soda  water 
doesn't  agree  with  me." 

"Then  you're  wise  to  avoid  it,"  said  Mr.  Welby. 

"Thank  you."  And  Nicholas,  turning  and  stretch- 
ing out  his  hand  to  take  the  glass  from  the  sideboard, 
saw  the  Pompeiian  vase  conspicuously  displayed  there. 
He  picked  up  the  vase  instead  of  the  glass,  and  looked 
at  it  with  a  slow  smile. 

70 


CONTENTMENT  71 

"Ah,'*  said  Mrs.  Welby,  with  a  sprightly  assumption 
of  friendliness  and  pleasure.  "You  remember  that?" 

"I've  a  long  memory.  I  never  forget  anything,"  and 
he  put  the  vase  back  in  its  place. 

"You  see  how  she  has  treasured  it." 

He  sat  silent,  looking  at  them,  and  slowly  sipping  his 
whisky  and  water. 

"Do  you  know,"  continued  Mrs.  Welby,  smilingly, 
"that  it's  simply  ages  since  you've  honoured  us  with 
a  visit.  We'd  all  been  wondering  and  talking  about 
you — hadn't  we,  dear?  When  the  telegram  came,  your 
godchild,  Primrose,  sprang  up,  and —  Well,  I'll  tell 
you  exactly  what  she  said." 

"Could  you  postpone  telling  me?  The  fact  is,  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  Welby  alone.  Don't  think  me 
rude." 

"Why,  of  course  not,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  slightly 
taken  aback,  but  smiling,  and  she  went  towards  the 
door. 

"I'm  not  inconveniencing  you?" 

"On  the  contrary.  I  left  a  bit  of  fancy  work  up- 
stairs that  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  on  with  while  you 
and  he  have  your  chat,"  and  she  left  the  room. 

There  was  a  long  silence  before  Nicholas  spoke. 

"Welby,  I'm  in  trouble." 

"What  say?" 

"I  have  come  to  ask  for  your  help." 

Mr.  Welby  was  completely  taken  aback.  "You  in 
trouble — and  you  ask  me  to  help  you?" 

"You  don't  give  me  a  cordial  answer." 

"I'm  so  staggered.  It's  such  a  topsy-turvy  idea. 
You  call  upon  me  to —  Why,  it  seems  to  me  the 
world's  gone  upside  down." 


72  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Nicholas  sighed,  coughed,  and  held  up  his  hand. 

But  Mr.  Welby  went  on,  almost  with  heat:  "Here 
you,  an  old  bachelor,  rolling  in  it,  and  you  expect  me, 
a  struggling  family  man,  to —  Well,  you've  been  here 
before.  You  see  what  I  am.  You  know  what  I  am." 

"Yes,  I  know  what  you  are — the  wisest  and  the 
kindest  man  I  ever  met." 

"Maybe.  Thank  you.  Much  obliged.  But  all  the 
same !  I'm  a  man  with  strong  shoulders,  but  I'm  carry- 
ing a  bit  over  what  I  can  carry,  do  all  I  try." 

"Don't  fail  me,  Welby,"  said  Nicholas  mournfully. 

"You  best  tell  me  straight  out  what  it  is.  Things 
gone  wrong  with  the  company?" 

"No,"  said  Nicholas,  "things  gone  wrong  with  me," 
and  he  made  another  vague  gesture,  seeming  to  imply 
internal  distress.  "Complications." 

Mr.  Welby  was  so  enormously  relieved  that  he  did 
not  attempt  for  the  moment  to  conceal  his  pleasure. 
"Oh,"  he  cried  cheerfully,  "you  only  mean  your  health?" 

Cousin  Nicholas   nodded. 

"But  I'm  not  a  doctor.     How  can  I  help  you?" 

"I'll  tell  you.  You  see  in  me  a  lonely  man,  a  tired 
man,  a  doomed  man.  I've  been  up  before  all  the 
specialists,  and  to-day  I  got  my  death  sentence.  Prob- 
ably I  have  only  a  few  months  to  live,  and  I'm  afraid 
of  dying  among  strangers.  I  want  to  stay  here  as  a 
permanent  visitor  with  you  and  your  children.  Make 
much  of  me — make  it  easy  for  me  till  the  end,  and  I 
promise  you  shall  find  yourself  amply  rewarded  after 
I'm  gone.  I'll  leave  you  my  money." 

Mr.  Welby  was  husky  from  excitement.  "You  take 
my  breath  away.  Your  generous  intentions  ab- 
solutely— " 


CONTENTMENT  73 

"Yes,  I'll  do  that,  whether  you  say  yes  or  no.  I 
have  decided  on  it." 

"You  overwhelm  me." 

"I  have  observed  you  all  on  my  visits,  and  I  have 
admired  you  all."  Saying  this,  Nicholas  glanced 
round  the  shabby  room.  "The  happy  and  contented 
family  life — the  courage — the  endurance — the  light- 
heartedness.  You  have  not  everything;  but  you  are 
contented  with  what  you  have.  All  my  life  I  have  been 
striving  to  amass  money.  What  for?  Useless.  I 
wish  I'd  taken  a  lesson  from  you.  Now  will  you  admit 
me  into  the  charmed  circle — for  a  little  while?" 

"Will  we?"  cried  Welby,  with  enthusiasm.  "How 
can  you  doubt?"  And  he  offered  his  hand. 

Nicholas  rose,  and  they  were  clasping  hands  when 
Jack  came  into  the  room. 

"Jack,"  shouted  Welby  boisterously.  "Call  your 
mother.  Call  Violet.  Wake  up  Primrose."  Then  he 
led  Nicholas  across  from  the  sideboard  to  the  arm-chair. 
"I  don't  say  welcome.  You're  at  home.  Sit  in  the 
easy  chair — my  own  chair." 

"I  shan't  use  it  long." 

"Bosh !  Don't  you  think  that.  You'll  be  all  right. 
TF^'ll  cheer  you  up,  and  soon  make  you  forget  all  the 
pessimistic  nonsense  those  doctors  have  been  telling 
you." 

Then  Mrs.  Welby  came  in  with  the  others.  Sarah, 
returned  from  her  outing,  but  still  in  hat  and  scarf, 
stood  in  the  doorway  behind  them. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  "he  has  come  to  stay 
with  us  for  good  and  all.  Your  cousin  takes  a  gloomy 
riew  of  his  health — without  the  least  reason,  as  I  am 
sure.  No.  Nicholas,  don't  you  believe  what  the  doctors 


74  A  LITTLE  MORE 

say.  But,  Violet — Jack — it's  for  us  to  cheer  him,  and 
to  drive  away  all  such  fancies.  Sarah,  is  the  spare 
room  ready?" 

"The  spare  room !"     Sarah  echoed  the  words  blankly. 

Mrs.  Welby,  also  confused  and  perturbed,  answered 
for  her.  "The  room  is  not  quite  ready,  but  it  will 
be  in  two  minutes." 

"My  luggage,"  said  the  visitor,  "is  at  the  Under- 
ground Station." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THEY    had    been    happy    because    they    were 
contented — or   rather  because   they   thought 
they  were  contented,  and  that  is  very  nearly 
the    same    thing.     Now   they    were    restless,    anxious, 
horribly   discontented,    and    they   knew    it.     Nothing 
could  satisfy  them  at  each  passing  moment,  because 
their   minds   were   all   busily   engaged   in   seeking   the 
greater  satisfaction  with  which  remote  moments  should 
be  filled. 

Yet  they  had  still  to  seem  what  they  used  to  be. 
Since  it  was  by  their  simple  unreasoning  contentment 
that  they  had  won  the  heart  of  their  rich  relative,  they 
must  continue  to  act  this  quality  even  if  the  quality 
itself  had  gone  for  ever. 

At  dinner  Mr.  Welby  used  to  say  just  the  sort  of 
things  that  he  had  been  saying  for  years ;  but  now  his 
jovial  tone  had  a  hollow  ring,  and  often  his  proverbs 
and  little  scraps  of  cheerful  philosophy  cost  him  a 
prodigious  effort.  Knowing  that  the  visitor  liked  their 
gaiety  and  light-heartedness,  -they  stimulated  Jack  to 
keep  up  a  running  fire  of  pleasantry  throughout  the 
meal. 

"Tell  Cousin  Nicholas  that  amusing  yarn  you  told 
me  in  the  tram,"  said  Mr.  Welby. 

"Oh,  what  was  that?"  said  the  girls,  giggling  pre- 
maturely. 

"Yes,  do  let's  have  it,  Jack,"  said  his  mother,  titter- 
ing. 

75 


76  A  LITTLE  MORE 

But  the  unfortunate  Jack  was  worn  out;  he  had 
exhausted  his  natural  flow  of  mirth  and  was  reduced 
to  the  very  lowest  ebb.  In  despair,  forcing  the  note 
like  a  second-rate  public  entertainer,  he  narrated  some 
miserable  anecdote  about  an  Englishman,  a  Scotchman, 
and  an  Irishman  in  a  railway  accident. 

And  perhaps  only  the  family  laughed,  while  the  hon- 
oured guest  looked  at  them  forlornly. 

"It  is  not  quite  new,"  he  said,  with  his  toneless 
voice.  "I  have  heard  it  before — quite  a  long  time  ago." 

"I  dare  say  you  have,"  said  Jack  irritably. 

"Personally,  I  never  mind  an  old  joke,"  said  Mrs. 
Welby,  tittering  nervously,  "if  it's  well  told.  The 
oftener  I  hear  it,  the  more  heartily  I  laugh  at  it." 
And  she  was  going  to  add  that  laughter  was  good  for 
the  digestion,  when  she  remembered  it  was  a  word  to  be 
avoided  carefully. 

It  was  a  failure  of  the  digestive  apparatus  that  was 
sweeping  Nicholas  onward  to  his  doom;  for,  now  that 
he  was  comfortably  established  in  their  midst,  always 
under  their  watchful  eyes,  they  could  not  doubt  that  he 
had  been  fatally  correct  when  describing  himself  as 
doomed.  By  daylight  his  complexion  looked  like  the 
parchment  of  old  title  deeds ;  sometimes  his  eyes  had 
scarcely  a  gleam  of  light  in  them;  he  was  so  thin  and 
frail  that,  as  the  doctor  said,  a  puff  of  wind  would 
blow  him  away.  The  doctor,  who  paid  him  a  visit 
every  morning,  said  explicitly  that  he  could  not  last 
long. 

They  felt  then  that,  however  fretful,  difficult,  and 
troublesome  he  might  be,  they  must  never  lose  patience 
or  fail  in  affectionate  attention.  His  money  was  com- 
ing to  them.  The  money  was  all  right. 


CONTENTMENT  77 

The  will  was  all  right.  After  a  month  or  six  weeks 
he  had  given  them  an  awful  scare  by  confessing  that  he 
had  not  yet  executed  his  will.  But  then  Mr.  Welby 
tackled  him,  acting  bluffness  and  independence,  with  a 
frank  and  jovial  face,  but  inwardly  tortured. 

"Look  here,  Nicholas.  What  you  have  let  fall,  so 
often,  about  our  expectations  makes  it  difficult  to  say 
what  I'm  going  to  say."  And  he  went  on  in  fine  manly 
style,  declaring  that  this  feeling  should  not  prevent 
him  from  doing  his  duty.  "After  all,  I'm  not  afraid 
that  you'll  mistake  us  for  what  we  are  not.  We  aren't 
the  sort  of  people  to  wait  for — "  He  was  going  to 
say  "dead  men's  shoes,"  but  he  stopped  himself.  "You 
know  very  well  I  don't  believe  one  little  word  of  all 
those  doctors.  But  I  think  you  ought  to  make  a  will. 
It's  a  duty — in  your  position." 

The  old  man  looked  at  him,  "through  and  through," 
as  it  seemed  to  Mr.  Welby,  and  then  he  spoke  in  his 
usual  dull  way,  without  a  trace  of  any  emotion. 

"Welby,  you're  a  good  fellow ;  a  heart  of  gold.  Yes, 
I'll  do  what  you  say." 

And  he  sent  for  Mr.  Rolls,  his  solicitor. 

On  the  morning  that  he  came  Mr.  Welby  remained 
at  home  to  receive  him;  the  room  of  old  Nicholas  up- 
stairs had  been  furnished  with  writing  materials;  the 
jobbing  gardener  sat  in  the  kitchen  with  Sarah,  drank 
beer,  and  waited,  pleasantly  idle,  until  the  two  witnesses 
were  required. 

Mr.  Rolls,  a  stout  urbane  man,  with  a  black  ribbon 
to  his  eye-glasses,  came  downstairs  again,  and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Welby  almost  pulled  him  into  the  drawing-room, 
to  ascertain  that  everything  had  been  accomplished. 

They  would  have  liked  to  look  at  the  document  itself, 


78  A  LITTLE  MORE 

but  Mr.  Rolls  was  professionally  reticent,  although 
they  could  see  by  his  manner  that  he  now  considered 
them  immensely  valuable  future  clients.  He  let  them 
understand  quite  plainly  by  his  nods  and  smiles  that 
the  inheritance  was  theirs. 

"But  these  matters  are  naturally  kept  private  from 
everybody." 

"What — from  his  nearest  and  dearest?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Welby — even  from  his  nearest  and  dear- 
est," and  Mr.  Rolls  shook  hands  with  both  of  them. 
"We  shall  meet  again." 

Naturally  old  Nicholas  was  paying  for  his  bed  and 
board  in  a  handsome  manner ;  moreover,  he  gave  them 
little  grants  in  aid,  or  sums  on  account  of  the  future. 
His  presents  to  the  young  people  took  the  form  of  an 
occasional  cheque  which  he  offered  with  a  sly  secret 
kind  of  smile;  and  for  these  and  all  other  benefits  the 
family  thanked  him  in  a  careless  good-humoured  way, 
as  though,  never  having  asked  for  largesse,  they  could 
not  pretend  to  feel  any  oppressive  sense  of  gratitude. 
They  all  remembered  that,  more  than  anything  else, 
it  was  their  independence  of  spirit  which  had  won  his 
heart. 

Jack  was  particularly  off-hand  with  him,  saying: 
"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  you  should  let  me  bite  your 
ear  like  this.  Especially  as  I  touched  you  for  a  tenner 
only  last  Wednesday,  didn't  I?  Anyhow,  it's  very 
decent  of  you,  and  I'm  much  obliged — for  this  little 
bit  of  ready  will  pull  me  out  of  a  scrape  that  I've  got 
into." 

"Oh,  scrapes,  scrapes !"  said  Nicholas,  sighing.  "At 
your  age  I  used  to  get  into  them  too.  The  thing  to 


CONTENTMENT  79 

remember  is,  that  while  one's  alone  in  the  scrape  it 
doesn't  matter.  I  do  hope  you'll  never  get  anybody 
else  into  a  scrape  with  you." 

Jack  glanced  at  him  uneasily,  and  wondered  what 
the  deuce  he  meant  by  that.  But  of  course  he  meant 
nothing.  He  was  looking  out  of  the  window,  gaping  at 
the  empty  roadway.  He  never  did  mean  anything, 
of  course,  although  again  and  again  he  made  queer 
remarks  that  either  irritated  you  or  set  you  wondering. 
All  in  turn  noticed  this  unconscious  trick  of  his — the 
little  inadvertent  sting  that  he  gave  one  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  was  most  amiable  and  flattering. 

Thus  he  stung  Violet  while  praising  her  sweetheart, 
Mr.  Carillon. 

"What  a  fine  fellow,'*  he  said,  smiling  meditatively. 
"So  strong  and  self-reliant.  More  like  a  soldier  than 
a  curate.  I  told  him  so.  If  you  put  him  in  the 
Guards,  how  well  he  would  look — in  that  smart 
uniform !" 

Violet  winced.  She  did  not  like  it;  somehow  these 
compliments  made  her  acutely  uncomfortable.  He 
went  on  talking  about  herself. 

"Am  I  indiscreet  in  showing  that  your  mother  has  let 
me  into  your  romantic  secret?  I  was  surprised  when 
she  told  me." 

"Why  were  you  surprised,  Cousin  Nicholas?" 

"I  suppose  because  nobility  of  mind  always  surprises 
one  just  at  first — even  when  one  ought  to  be  prepared 
for  it,"  and  he  sat  .there  smiling  at  her  admiringly.  "A 
beautiful  handsome  girl  like  you  might  so  easily  have 
thought  that  she  could  do  better  in  a  worldly  sense. 
But  you  could  not,  my  dear  Violet,  from  the  spiritual 


80  A  LITTLE  MORE 

point  of  view.  It  is  a  grand  life,  really — though  made 
fun  of  in  plays  and  comic  papers.  The  curate's  wife! 
Yes,  if  thoughtless  people  sneer,  they  don't  understand 
that  she  has  neither  means  nor  leisure  for  adornment, 
cultivation,  or  airs  and  graces.  She  lives  for  others, 
not  for  herself." 

And  Violet  felt  that  he  was  rubbing  all  this  in  most 
fearfully. 

"You  are  admirably  suited  to  it,  Violet.  Outward 
show  is  nothing  to  you;  you  have  always  neglected 
yourself;  you  are  careless  about  your  dress." 

"Do  you  mean  I  am  dowdy?"  said  Violet,  with  a  hot 
and  angry  glow  in  her  cheeks. 

But  Cousin  Nicholas  said  he  had  meant  nothing  so 
disrespectful ;  far  from  it.  He  was  only  praising  her. 

In  much  the  same  manner  he  upset  Primrose.  Be- 
tween the  sisters  a  certain  sharpness  of  rivalry  had 
arisen.  Primrose  suspected  Violet  of  not  playing 
cricket,  of  getting  at  their  cousin  on  the  sly;  and  in 
self-defence  she  too  resorted  to  ruses,  feeling  ashamed 
of  herself  at  first,  and  then  soon  losing  any  sense  of 
compunction.  Indeed,  throughout  the  house  the  same 
influence  was  at  work,  and  it  had  the  same  deteriorating 
effect  on  one  and  all. 

One  Saturday,  when  Mr.  Welby  was  going  to  take 
the  invalid  for  a  drive  and  had  gone  to  fetch  the  T-cart, 
Nicholas  being  alone  with  Primrose  gave  her  a  cheque, 
which  he  said  was  to  be  considered  quite  secret  and 
confidential. 

"Remember,"  he  said,  "you  are  my  god-daughter"; 
and  by  reminding  her  of  a  fact  which  he  himself  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  during  so  many  years,  he  enabled  her 


CONTENTMENT  81 

to  satisfy  scruples  of  conscience  if  any  still  lingered. 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  said  Primrose.  "All  right,  then. 
Many  thanks."  And  she  hid  the  cheque,  and  gave  him 
a  kiss  on  his  bald  wrinkled  forehead. 

"What  a  pretty  payment,"  he  said,  with  a  gratified 
smile. 

"It's  a  very  easy  way,"  said  Primrose  gaily,  "and  a 
very  cheap  way  of  paying  debts — with  a  kiss." 

"Ah,  my  dear,  they  are  cheap  now.  But  there  may 
come  a  day  eventually,  when  some  one  of  my  sex  may 
attach  quite  a  value  to  your  kisses." 

"Does  that  seem  to  you  so  very  unlikely?"  asked 
Primrose,  stung  by  his  queer  words. 

The  old  fellow  smiled  at  her  benignly.  "No,  dear. 
Not  if  he  is  sensible,  and  can  look  below  the  surface  as  I 
do.  Beauty  is  only  skin-deep,  Primrose.  I  have  always 
thought  that  if  a  girl  is  not  repulsive  in  any  way,  it  is 
sufficient." 

Primrose  bit  her  lip.  For  a  moment  she  felt  inclined 
to  tear  up  the  cheque  and  throw  the  fragments  of  it  in 
his  stupid  yellow  face.  But  that,  of  course,  would  have 
been  foolish  on  her  part,  since  his  tactlessness  was  obvi- 
ously unpremeditated.  She  could  not,  however,  refrain 
from  speaking  recklessly  and  defiantly. 

"It  may  astonish  you,  but  I  have  had  several  admirers 
in  my  time — and,  if  you  want  to  know,  I'm  going  out 
to  meet  one  of  them  now." 

"Well,  well,"  murmured  the  old  gentleman.  "As 
your  dear  father  says,  wonders  will  never  cease." 

"His  name  is  Perkins,"  said  Primrose  shrilly. 

"Perkins !  A  grand  old  English  name,"  and  he 
turned  in  the  arm-chair  and  looked  out  at  the  road. 


82  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Perkins,  Beaufort,  Mowbray — there's  a  prestige,  a 
resonance,  about  the  names  of  aristocratic  families  that 

have  been  seated  in  the  same  place  and Ah,  here 

comes  the  carriage.  I  know  your  father  dislikes  driv- 
ing as  an  amusement;  yet  he  sacrifices  himself  for  me. 
But  you  are  all  the  same — you  never  think  of  your- 
selves, you  think  only  of  others." 

This  afternoon,  while  Mr.  Welby  was  conducting  the 
T-cart  jaunt,  Violet  spent  an  hour  with  Mr.  Carillon, 
and  Jack  and  Amabel  Price  had  an  uncomfortable  tea 
together  in  Battersea  Park. 

Jack  had  kept  Amabel  waiting  for  him  a  long  time, 
and  she  was  silent,  perhaps  thinking  of  this  neglect  as 
bitterly  as  her  sweet  nature  would  allow. 

"Buck  up,  old  girl,"  said  Jack,  after  paying  the  bill. 
"Come  on.  I've  something  for  you  in  my  pocket — a 
little  bit  of  sugar  for  the  bird." 

They  walked  away  from  the  other  people,  and  along 
the  path  by  the  river.  The  surface  of  the  broad  stream 
was  ruffled  by  a  cold  breeze;  the  seagulls  were  flying 
low  and  emitting  melancholy  notes;  the  buildings  on 
the  further  shore  looked  dull  and  severe  as  prisons 
against  the  darkening  sky;  and  in  the  park  itself 
autumn  had  already  brought  an  aspect  of  ruin  and 
desolation,  for  after  a  hot  dry  summer  all  the  foliage 
had  shrunk  and  died  quickly.  Amabel  shivered,  and 
gave  her  thin  scarf  another  turn  round  her  graceful 
neck. 

Then,  standing  with  her  by  the  railed  wall  above  the 
water,  Jack  produced  his  little  glittering  piece  of  con- 
solation. It  was  a  pretty  but  inexpensive  ring,  and 
after  pulling  off  her  well-worn  glove  he  put  it  on  one 
of  her  long,  slender  fingers. 


CONTENTMENT  83 

"My  engagement  ring,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice  as 
she  looked  at  it. 

"Your  wedding  ring — if  it  makes  you  more  comfort- 
able to  think  it  so." 

"Jack,  don't — please  don't  say  things  like  that." 

He  was  holding  her  by  the  arm  now,  with  his  face 
near  hers,  watching  the  quiver  of  her  lips  and  the 
delicate  colour  as  it  glowed  and  faded  on  her  pale  cheek. 
"See.  I'll  put  the  ring  on  your  finger  again,"  and  he 
did  so.  "  'With  this  ring  I  thee  wed.'  There  are  the 
sacred  words,  to  make  my  pretty  frightened  little  girl 
feel  that  it's  all  right.  'For  better  for  worse,  in  sick- 
ness and ' ' 

"No,  don't  say  them.     It  isn't  lucky,  Jack." 

Jack  laughed.  Then  he  went  on  to  say  that  the 
financial  assistance  given  to  him  from  time  to  time  by 
his  cousin  Nicholas  would  enable  him  to  make  her  an 
allowance;  and  he  wished  her  to  give  up  working,  and 
move  into  some  lodgings  where  the  landlady  would  not 
create  a  silly  fuss  when  he  came  to  see  her. 

Amabel  walked  fast  when  he  said  these  and  other 
things,  and  when  she  spoke  to  him  it  was  in  a  tone  of 
misery. 

"Jack,  don't  make  me  think  that  you  are  purposely 
trying  to  insult  me.  That  would  be  too  cruel — from 
you" 

"What  nonsense!"  Jack  laughed  at  her  expostula- 
tions, still  urging  her  to  take  money  from  him.  "And, 
of  course,  when  the  old  man  does  finally  turn  up  his 
toes " 

Amabel,  interrupting,  told  him  for  the  first  time  of 
the  vague  fears  aroused  in  her  by  the  presence  of  the 
visitor  at  their  house.  She  said  that  to  her  mind  there 


84  A  LITTLE  MORE 

was  something  sinister,  something  quite  dreadful,  in  the 
idea  of  this  moribund  old  man  sitting  there,  while  they 
all  watched  him  and  thought  of  what  would  happen  at 
his  death.  He  himself  was  so  strange,  so  terrible,  in 
his  apparent  unconcern  with  regard  to  the  impending 
fate.  He  knew  that  he  was  dying,  and  he  did  not 
mind.  She  was  afraid  of  him. 

"Afraid!  Why?  He  hasn't  been  rude  to  you,  has 
he?" 

"Oh,  no !  He  scarcely  ever  says  a  word  to  me.  But 
he  looks  at  me,  Jack,  and  he  smiles  at  me — as  if  he  had 
read  all  my  secret  thoughts,  and  was  slyly  pitying  me. 
It  makes  me  so  uncomfortable  that  I  can  hardly  sit 
still  at  the  table." 

"Well,  that's  odd,"  said  Jack.  "I  must  say  that's 
devilish  odd." 

"Jack,  I  feel  certain  that  he  is  not  to  be  trusted. 
Don't  trust  him." 

"D'you  mean  that  after  all  he  may  play  us  false — 
or  that  he  really  hasn't  got  the  goods?"  And  as  they 
walked  on  again  Jack  became  moody  and  preoccupied. 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  his  money,"  she  said.  "I 
meant,  is  he  really  and  truly  as  fond  of  you  all  as 
he  seems  to  be?" 

Jack,  not  listening,  was  deep  in  thought.  But  he 
roused  himself  and  spoke  cheerfully.  "Oh,  no,  Mab, 
my  pretty  one,  he  must  be  all  right.  Yes,  I  know  he 
is." 

And  he  described  the  office  of  the  old  gentleman's 
company.  It  was  a  dark  dismal  kind  of  place  in  one 
of  the  narrow  courts  off  Lombard  Street,  with  a  rum- 
looking  manager,  half  Austrian,  half  Jew,  and  a  lot  of 
clerks  who  jabbered  German  among  themselves;  but 


CONTENTMENT  85 

everything  there  was  thoroughly  reassuring.  Last  time 
Jack  visited  it,  sent  there  by  Nicholas  to  fetch  letters, 
Mr.  Bernstein,  the  manager,  told  him  what  large  profits 
the  mine  yielded  year  after  year.  He  had  given  Jack 
a  message — to  tell  the  old  gentleman  not  to  worry, 
because  everything  was  going  splendidly. 

Violet  and  Mr.  Carillon  had  their  tea  in  a  downstairs 
room  of  the  vicarage,  with  the  bachelor  vicar  and  his 
spinster  sister;  afterwards  they  went  into  the  vestry 
of  the  church,  into  the  parish  hall,  into  the  gymnasium 
of  the  boys'  brigade,  Carillon  fulfilling  in  each  place 
some  of  those  small  duties  that  seem  unending  in  the 
busy  day  of  a  conscientious  curate ;  and  throughout  the 
little  tour  Violet  was  cruelly  haunted  by  memories  of 
that  conversation  when  old  Nicholas  held  forth  about 
the  abnegation  and  self-sacrifice  demanded  of  a  curate's 
wife. 

His  tasks  performed,  honest  Carillon  took  her  back 
to  the  vicarage  and  upstairs  to  the  living-room  that 
he  and  the  vicar  and  the  other  curate  shared  in  common. 
They  were  alone  there,  and  while  Carillon  talked  to  her 
lovingly,  she  studied  the  appearance  of  the  room  and 
thought  again  of  all  that  Nicholas  had  said. 

The  stone-coloured  walls  were  decorated  here  and 
there  with  Biblical  prints  in  black  frames ;  some  dwarf 
bookcases  overflowed  with  dull  cloth-bound  theological 
books ;  there  were  two  large  flat  writing-tables ;  and 
the  chairs,  fashioned  out  of  the  wood  that  is  generally 
used  for  pews  and  ornamented  in  the  same  ecclesiastical 
style,  had  not  a  cushion  among  the  whole  stiff  straight 
six  of  them.  There  was  no  arm-chair,  no  sofa,  no  foot- 
stool. On  the  mantelshelf,  as  well  as  on  the  tables,  one 


86  A  LITTLE  MORE 

saw  piles  of  parish  circulars,  church  notices,  and  so 
forth. 

The  room  and  its  contents  were  so  hideously  unin- 
teresting, so  suggestive  of  everything  dull,  monotonous, 
and  unromantic,  that  Violet  instinctively  turned  her 
back  on  it  and  went  to  one  of  the  windows.  Leaning 
against  the  dusty  red  curtain,  she  looked  out  at  the 
roadway,  the  passing  trams,  the  leafless  trees,  and  the 
arid  Common. 

It  was  here  by  the  window,  with  her  hand  in  his,  that 
her  sweetheart  spoke  of  Nicholas,  saying  how  very 
curious  had  been  his  suggestion  about  the  army. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "it  showed  a  remarkable  insight 
into  character;  for — though  you  mightn't  guess  it, 
Violet — that  was  my  early  ambition,"  and,  squeezing 
her  hand,  he  laughed  complacently.  "Can  you  fancy 
me  as  a  soldier,  Vi?" 

"No,  I  can't,"  said  Violet  abruptly. 
"Don't  you  think  I'd  have  made  a  good  soldier  if 
I'd  tried?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Violet,  with  irritation,  and  she 
snatched  her  hand  away. 
"Vi !" 

"Oh,  it's  all  right.  Don't  be  silly.  I  didn't  mean 
to  hurt  you." 

Mr.  Carillon  had  been  really  hurt  by  her  tone  and 
manner;  but,  like  the  good  man  he  was,  he  accepted 
her  excuses. 

"I  only  meant  it's  ridiculous  to  talk  like  that,  and 
it  got  on  my  nerves,"  said  Violet,  excusing  herself. 

"Forgive  me,  but   I'm  nervous   and  overwrought 

Oh!"     And   she   uttered    an    exclamation.     "What    a 
queer  coincidence!" 


CONTENTMENT  87 

Following  the  direction  of  her  eyes  as  she  stared 
down  at  the  broad  road,  Carillon  saw  Manger's  T-cart 
and  the  well-known  brown  horse  go  jogging  past.  Mr. 
Welby  was  sitting  bolt-upright,  and  driving  with  con- 
sumate  skill,  as  he  worked  round  a  stationary  tram. 
The  old  gentleman,  sitting  low  beside  him,  was  muffled 
in  a  big  overcoat ;  his  head  hung  forward  on  his  feeble, 
skinny  neck,  and  jolted  strangely  as  the  tram-lines 
wrenched  at  the  wheels  of  the  light  carriage ;  he  looked 
half  dead  already. 

But  Mr.  Welby  swung  him  along  gaily,  up  the  gentle 
slope,  and  round  the  corner  into  the  quiet  home-road. 

From  the  corner  of  the  road  one  could  see  the  house, 
and  hundreds  of  times  Mr.  Welby,  returning  from  the 
City  on  summer  afternoons,  had  stood  here  and  admired 
it.  To  him  it  had  been  not  a  house,  but  the  house.  He 
had  looked  at  it  with  a  kind  of  mellow  golden  pleasure, 
a  sensation  seeming  to  belong  to  the  warm  slanted  sun- 
beams that  touched  so  lovingly  its  stucco  cornice,  its 
plate-glass  windows,  its  impressive  front-door  steps. 
And  the  house  used  to  say  to  him :  "Yes,  you  may  well 
look  at  me ;  you  may  well  be  proud  of  me." 

Now  its  charm  had  gone.  It  was  just  like  the  houses 
on  each  side  .of  it — a  shabby  little  affair,  set  in  the 
midst  of  shabbiness. 

That  was  what  the  visitor  had  done  for  them  so  far. 
He  had  disenchanted  them. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  last  days  of  November  brought  boisterous 
cold  winds,  the  sort  of  winds  that  made  the 
gas  jets  flare  each  time  the  front  door  was 
opened  to  the  dark  night,  and  once  blew  out  the  candle 
on  Mr.  Welby's  writing-table. 

The  sick  man  came  no  more  downstairs.  He  was 
too  weak  to  support  himself.  He  sat  in  the  ingeniously 
contrived  wheel-chair  that  the  Welbys  had  obtained  for 
him,  and  was  pushed  by  one  of  them  round  and  round 
his  own  room,  and  out  on  the  first-floor  landing.  Here 
there  was  a  small  window,  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
from  which  you  looked  right  over  the  garden.  Since 
the  beginning  of  his  confinement  to  the  upper  floor 
this  view  from  the  window  seemed  to  exercise  a  fascina- 
tion over  him;  whenever  the  light  was  good  he  would 
make  them  wheel  him  to  the  window,  and  there  he 
remained  as  long  as  they  permitted. 

Lest  he  should  take  cold  during  these  excursions 
from  his  room,  Mrs.  Welby  had  bought  two  portable 
oil-stoves,  and  they  were  kept  in  full  blast  on  the  land- 
ing; she  wrapped  him  round  with  shawls,  too,  and  she 
or  one  of  the  others  was  always  in  charge  of  him. 

Thus,  on  a  day  as  bright  as  any  December  day  can 
be,  he  sat  all  huddled  in  the  chair  and  stared  out  of 
the  window.  Jack  was  in  charge  of  him,  with  Mrs. 
Welby  not  far  off,  and  Mr.  Welby  somewhere  on  the 


83 


CONTENTMENT  89 

ground  floor.  Both  Jack  and  his  father  had  stayed  at 
home  for  the  last  few  days. 

"It's  wonderful,  Jack,"  said  the  old  man,  still  staring 
at  the  view.  "It's  wonderful." 

"Yes,"  said  Jack,  "red-hot,  isn't  it?" 

Although  he  used  a  slang  expression,  he  spoke  in  a 
low  voice,  and  both  sympathetically  and  respectfully, 
for  there  was  something  about  Cousin  Nicholas  to-day 
that  overawed  one.  He  himself  spoke  in  low  tones,  and 
every  word  seemed  to  cost  him  trouble;  his  breathing 
was  rapid  and  shallow ;  his  eyes  had  a  vitreous  lustre ; 
his  fleshless  fingers  moved  feebly  on  the  tartan  rug  that 
lay  over  his  knees. 

"Wonderful!"  He  repeated  the  word,  and  then 
remained  silent. 

Truly  it  was  a  wonderful  view.  Beyond  the  garden 
one  looked  downward  over  the  close-packed  terraces  to 
the  broad  railway  line,  and  beyond  that  it  was  like  a 
sea  of  roofs.  In  the  cold  clearness  of  the  wintry  sun- 
light one  could  see  for  an  immense  distance,  to  the 
faint  grey  outline  of  the  northern  heights,  westward 
beyond  the  towers  and  domes  of  Kensington,  eastward 
to  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  the  Monument,  the  Tower 
Bridge;  here  and  there  far-off  glass  or  slate  flashed 
prismatically ;  and  certain  buildings,  while  one  looked 
at  them,  grew  hard  and  firm  as  metal,  grew  vague  again, 
and  faded  altogether.  Then  other  buildings,  towers 
and  spires  unseen  till  then,  began  to  sparkle  as  the 
sunlight  touched  them  in  their  turn. 

And  all  at  once  the  old  man  began  to  talk,  hurriedly, 
excitedly,  in  a  way  that  was  new  and  strange. 

"There  you  have  it,  Jack.     Would  you  accept  if 


90  A  LITTLE  MORE 

you  were  tempted?  There  it  is,  at  our  feet — the  king- 
doms of  the  earth — the  palaces — the  inventions — the 
cunningly  contrived  secret  places  hidden  behind  the 
pillars  of  the  high  colonnade." 

"Cousin  Nicholas,"  said  Jack,  rather  scared,  "don't 
tire  yourself  with  talking,"  and  he  looked  round  to 
see  if  his  mother  was  anywhere  near. 

The  old  man  went  babbling  on.  "There  you  have  it. 
Look  at  it — the  glitter  and  the  show — the  toys  men 
crave  for,  the  pomp  of  the  senate-house,  the  noise  of 
the  bazaar,  the  smiles  of  the  painted  slaves  waiting 
behind  the  trel/ises — all  that  men  stretch  forth  their 
hands  to  grasp,  believing  it  is  all  out  there — outside 
themselves  instead  of  inside  them.  Yes,  the  dream  of 
desire,  the  mirage  of  the  desert,  the  mocking,  mocking 
illusion.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  Man  wants  but  little  here  below. 
Only  an  old,  old  man  could  have  said  that.  But  youth 
— when  one  was  young — young  men — they  want  more 
and  more — they  want  it  alL  If  one  said,  'Stretch  out 
your  arms,  and  seize  it '  r 

"Mother,"  called  Jack.     "Come  here." 

The  old  man  was  silent  now,  huddled  lower  in  the 
chair,  and  Jack,  stooping  over  him,  touched  his  hand. 

He  slowly  moved  his  head  till  presently  he  was  look- 
ing up  at  Jack,  and  he  spoke  breathlessly,  but  in  his 
ordinary  manner. 

"Jack,  you  must  honour  your  father  and  your 
mother.  Be  gentle  with  them.  And  be  kind  to  some- 
one else.  .  .  .  Jack,  do  you  hear  me?  Be  kind  to  that 
girl." 

He  said  no  more. 

Mrs.  Welby  was  bustling  to  them.     "He-  ought  to 


CONTENTMENT  91 

get  back  to  his  room,"  she  said  briskly.  "How  has  he 
been?" 

"I — I — I  think  he's  light-headed,"  Jack  stammered 
in  a  whisper.  "I — I  think  it  is  near  the  end  with  him." 

And  it  was. 


PART  TWO 


PROSPERITY 


CHAPTER  I 

TO  new-comers  in  the  great  world  there  is  no 
more  useful  work  of  reference  than  the  volume 
known   as    "Who's    Who,"   and   Mr.   Welby 
consulted  it  often  during  this  brilliant  London  season 
of  the  year  1914.     He  used  to  call  for  it  loudly  after 
meeting  distinguished  personages  at  public  dinners  or 
charity  bazaars.     "Where's  'Who's  Who'?" 

What  he  really  said  was  "Where  Zoo-Zoo?"  But 
every  one,  including  the  butler,  knew  what  he  meant. 
From  time  immemorial  Mr.  Welby  had  occasionally 
failed  to  sound  an  aspirate.  No  one  noticed  or  minded 
this  at  Clapham;  but  it  was  a  little  disconcerting  at 
Knightsbridge,  and  his  daughters  sometimes  thought 
that  if  only  he  had  come  into  a  few  more  h's  together 
with  his  fortune,  they  might  have  been  proud  of  him 
as  well  as  fond  of  him.  However,  they  had  much  to 
be  thankful  for,  since  he  had  shown  remarkable  adapt- 
ability under  changed  conditions,  throwing  himself 
heart  and  soul  into  all  the  enjoyment  that  fashion  and 
frivolity  can  offer,  being  indulgent  to  the  whims  of  the 
family — seldom  putting  his  foot  down. 

Now,  on  a  warm  June  evening,  the  Welbys  were 
dining  quietly  at  home  in  their  splendid  flat.  Dinner 
was  over,  and  the  girls  had  just  romped  off  with  the 
two  male  guests,  through  the  morning-room  into  the 
drawing-room,  .leaving  all  the  doors  open  behind  them. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Welby  remained  seated  at  table  to  drink 

their  coffee.     Timesman,  assisted  by  a  tall  footman, 

95 


96  A  LITTLE  MORE 

having  filled  their  cups,  carried  the  trays  after  the 
noisy  party  and  meekly  awaited  their  attention. 

In  there  all  was  laughter,  gaiety  and  noise.  Violet 
and  Mr.  Adolphus  Faring  had  immediately  started  the 
huge  gramophone  with  one  of  George  Robey's  scream- 
ing records ;  Primrose  had  snatched  up  her  violin  and 
begun  to  play  a  Tarantula  dance;  while  Sir  John 
Lightwood  cut  elderly  capers  round  her  in  an  ecstasy 
of  admiration  at  what  he  termed  her  verve  and  abandon. 
The  butler  and  the  footman  moved  here  and  there 
discreetly,  careful  not  to  get  the  trays  knocked  over. 

From  her  seat  at  the  table  Mrs.  Welby  had  a  delight- 
ful vista  of  the  rooms,  the  inner  one  ablaze  with  electric 
light,  and  through  its  open  doors  offering  what  seemed 
a  typical  picture  of  high  life — the  two  fascinating 
young  women  with  bare  white  shoulders  and  bright 
coloured  gauze  frocks ;  the  two  fashionable  men  in  fault- 
less evening  dress;  the  liveried  servant  and  the  one  in 
plain  clothes.  She  sat  watching  and  tittering. 

"Close  those  doors,  Timesman,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  as 
the  servants  returned.  "And  get  me  some  old  brandy." 

The  footman  closed  the  doors  and  vanished,  while 
Timesman  went  to  the  vast  oak  buffet  and  sought 
among  a  glitter  of  gold  and  silver  for  the  cut-glass 
decanter  that  was  required. 

Mr.  Welby  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  blew  a  puff  of 
cigar  smoke  towards  the  carved  and  painted  ceiling. 

It  was  a  really  gorgeous  flat — at  least  two  flats  hav- 
ing been  thrown  into  one  to  make  it  what  it  was.  Yet, 
but  for  a  disappointment,  he  would  have  secured  some- 
thing even  better.  This  was  on  the  fourth  floor,  and 
he  had  been  in  treaty  for  some  unique  accommodation 
on  the  first  floor  when  a  man  richer  than  himself  eame 


PROSPERITY  97 

and  snapped  it  up.  The  affair  had  left  a  slight  bitter- 
ness in  the  mind  of  Mr.  Welby,  and  he  felt  that  the 
landlords  had  treated  him  badly.  While  he  was  hes- 
itating about  the  price,  they  had  no  right  to  go  and 
let  the  place  over  his  head — or  rather,  under  his  feet. 
However,  that  was  already  ancient  history,  not  worth 
thinking  of  any  longer. 

"Well,"  he  said,  stretching  himself  comfortably,  "it's 
pleasant  to  get  a  night  off.  I'm  dead  tired.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  turn  in  early." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  "have  you  forgotten 
the  Quartz's  musical  party  in  Prince's  Gate?" 

"O  Lord,  must  we  go  to  that?" 

"Yes,  we  really  must,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  tittering; 
and  she  added  with  meaning:  "In  the  circumstances, 
you  know.  Yes,  all  of  us.  It's  only  to  change  your 
coat.  You're  perfect  otherwise." 

And  this  was  true.  In  his  white  waistcoat  and  white 
tie,  with  all  the  jewelled  buttons  and  pearl  studs,  Mr. 
Welby  sitting  down  looked  grand  enough  for  any  party, 
and  directly  he  had  put  on  his  swallow-tails  in  place 
of  his  dinner  jacket  he  would  be  fit  to  stand  up. 

But  he  did  certainly  look  tired.  His  face,  much 
redder  than  it  used  to  be,  was  puffy,  and  yet  it  showed 
many  more  lines  than  were  on  it  in  the  old  days.  Espe- 
cially about  the  mouth  there  were  wrinkles  that  swiftly 
deepened  under  the  stress  of  each  little  passing  annoy- 
ance; and  then  the  expression  of  his  face  was  one  of 
almost  childish  querulousness.  Mrs.  Welby  had  aged 
also,  but  she  was  so  grandly  dressed,  with  such  irides- 
cent satin,  such  gossamer  lace,  and  such  flashing  or- 
naments, that  this  was  less  perceptible  than  in  the  case 
of  her  husband.  She  tittered  a  great  deal.  This 


98  A  LITTLE  MORE 

tittering,  to  which  she  had  always  been  inclined, 
worried  her  daughters.  Other  fashionable  ladies  eked 
out  their  small  talk  with  much  smiling  and  gentle 
laughter;  but  Mrs.  Welby  did  it  too  much.  It  had 
become  a  nervous  trick  with  her;  it  was  just  a  symptom 
of  tired  nerves.  Thus  she  went  on  tittering  now  merely 
because  Timesman  was  in  the  room.  She  could  not 
feel  really  herself  except  when  she  and  her  husband 
were  quite  alone. 

"I  think,"  said  Timesman,  "that  I  had  better  not 
take  the  liqueurs  into  the  drawing-room,  for  fear  of  an 
accident.  I'll  place  them  here." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  "take  them  out  into  the 
hall,  where  the  gentlemen  can  help  themselves  when  they 
choose." 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

Mrs.  Welby  tittered. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  Timesman,  apologizing  for  the 
slip  that  he  had  made.  "I  said  'My  lady'  unawares. 
.  .  .  Yes,  ma'am." 

"Ah!"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "You've  got  it  right  this 
time." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Timesman,  with  a  grave  smile;  "but 
perhaps  I  was  only  premature.  The^other  mode  of 
address  may  be  correct  before  long,"  and  he  carried 
the  tray  of  liqueur  bottles  out  of  the  room. 

Mr.  Welby  laughed  good-humouredly,  astounded  but 
tickled  by  the  rascal's  acuteness.  This  was  Mr.  Welby's 
deepest  and  strongest  wish — the  knighthood;  already 
he  had  put  down  some  solid  money  to  further  his  secret 
desire ;  the  thing  might  come  to  him  next  January.  In 
strictest  confidence  he  had  mentioned  the  hope  to  Mrs. 
Welby,  saying:  "Of  course,  I  don't  want  it  for  myself. 


PROSPERITY  99 

I'm  only  thinking  of  you  and  the  others."  And  he 
added,  with  the  lines  deepening  and  the  querulous 
expression  coming  upon  his  face:  "If  I  was  like  that 
fellow  downstairs  and  could  afford  to  write  a  cheque 
for  ten  thousand  pounds,  I'd  get  it  as  sure  as  eggs 
are  eggs." 

"Sounds  all  right,"  he  said  now,  chuckling.  "My 
lady !  What  ?"  And  he  nodded  towards  the  door 
through  which  Timesman  had  passed  into  the  hall.  "A 
knock-out,  isn't  he?  Sharp  as  a  razor." 

Timesman  returned  and  sedately  performed  some 
final  rite  at  the  buffet ;  Mr.  Welby  was  silent ;  and  Mrs. 
Welby  tittered,  and  went  on  tittering  till  Timesman 
withdrew. 

Whatever  else  occasionally  discontented  the  Welbys, 
they  were  at  any  rate  never  otherwise  than  well  satisfied 
with  their  butler.  Slim  but  dignified,  perhaps  about 
thirty  years  of  age,  "knowing  his  job  inside  out,"  he 
was  considered  by  his  present  employers  as  a  real  treas- 
ure. Although  he  had  been  in  the  very  best  places, 
he  never  threw  his  former  eminence  at  your  head;  he 
never  took  a  liberty,  never  failed  in  absolute  respect. 
Mr.  Welby  often  spoke  of  this  virtue.  "What  I  like 
about  him — he  is  so  respectful." 

The  respectful  Timesman  closed  the  last  door,  leav- 
ing Mr.  and  Mrs.  Welby  to  their  chat,  and  went  out 
into  the  hall,  where  he  sat  sipping  maraschino  and 
reading  the  Pall  Mall  Gazette  until  disturbed  by  trouble 
in  the  lobby  between  the  footman  and  an  importunate 
visitor. 

The  hall  was  not  the  least  charming  apartment  of 
the  flat.  Panelled  with  imitation  old  oak,  fitted  with 
brown  leather  arm-chairs  and  large  carved  tables,  for 


100  A  LITTLE  MORE 

newspapers  and  magazines,  it  had  a  pleasant  "homey" 
air,  and  was  in  fact  generally  used  as  a  sitting-room; 
beyond  it  there  was  the  square  lobby,  the  front  door, 
the  landing,  and  the  lift. 

"Ssh!  No  raised  voices,  please,"  said  Timesman,  as 
he  went  to  the  lobby  and  confronted  the  middle-aged 
woman  who  had  insisted  upon  coming  in. 

"It's  all  right,"  she  declared.     "He'll  see  me." 

"Will  he,  indeed?     Don't  take  things  for  granted." 

"I'm  an  old  friend,"  said  Sarah,  fumbling  with  her 
handbag.  "Mr.  Welby  won't  refuse  to  see  me" 

"That's  not  the  point,"  said  Timesman,  very  quiet 
and  stern.  "Is  Mr.  Welby  expecting  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sarah  rather  dolefully,  "he's  been  expect- 
ing me  ever  since  last  quarter  day.  I  don't  want  to 
disturb  him,  but  he  has  had  his  dinner,  of  course?" 

"He  has  had  his  dinner,  but  the  processes  of  digestion 
have  begun." 

"Oh !  Well,  you  take  in  my  card  when  you  get  the 
opportunity.  Now  be  obliging.  Arrange  an  inter- 
view for  me,  without  disturbing  him  or  putting  him 
out." 

"It  can't  be  done,"  said  Timesman  inexorably. 
Nevertheless,  he  accepted  the  card,  and  looking  at  it, 
seemed  a  little  impressed :  "  'Miss  Sarah  Brown.  Pri- 
vate Hotel!'  The  proprietor?" 

"Yes.  I  bought  the  house  from  Mr.  Welby — but 
part  remains  on  mortgage — and,  the  fact  is,  I'm  a  little 
behind  with  the  interest." 

"Well,  Miss  Brown,"  said  Timesman  grandly,  "I'd 
do  anything  I  could  for  you " 

"That's  right.  I  can  wait,  you  know.  I  want  to 
catch  him  in  a  real  good  temper." 


PROSPERITY  101 

"Ah,  you  may  have  to  wait  a  long  time  for  that." 
And  Timesman,  looking  at  the  card,  had  one  of  his 
grave  smiles.  "Sounds  better  than  Boarding  House — 
'Private  Hotel !'  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Sarah,  again  rather  dolefully. 
"It's  been  a  bit  too  private,  so  far.  The  public  haven't 
responded  as  I  hoped." 

"You  are  a  long  way  out,  of  course.  What  made 
you  choose  such  a  locality?" 

"I  took  the  house  over  from  him,  when  he  gave  up 
living  there  himself." 

"What,  did  he  live  there?"  said  Timesman,  much  sur- 
prised. 

"Yes,  that  was  their  home  till  last  year,  when  the  old 
gentleman  died  and  they  came  into  all  the  money." 

"And  you  say  you  were  a  friend  of  the  family?" 

"I  was  in  their  service,  as  domestic,  over  twenty 
years." 

"Step  inside." 

Timesman's  manner  had  changed  instantaneously, 
becoming  very  cordial  and  familiar.  He  led  Sarah  into 
the  hall,  made  her  sit  in  one  of  the  leather  arm-chairs, 
and,  after  dismissing  the  footman,  went  on  talking  with 
the  utmost  friendliness. 

"Miss  Brown,  you're  just  the  person  I've  been  want- 
ing to  meet,"  and  he  smiled  at  her  expansively.  "I 
flattered  myself  I  was  something  of  a  sociologist,  but 
these  Welbys  have  fairly  baffled  me.  I  simply  can't 
place  them.  In  a  sense,  of  course,  they're  climbers — 
ordinary  climbers." 

Sarah  looked  puzzled. 

"You  know  what  I  mean?  They  have  arrived  here," 
said  Timesman,  "but  they  want  to  get  higher." 


102  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"But  they're  on  the  fourth  floor.  How  many  floors 
are  there?  That  lift  went  on  like  a  rocket." 

Timesman  laughed.  "My  dear  Miss  Brown,  you  are 
really  refreshing.  I  alluded  to  social  heights — the 
upper  circles  of  society." 

"Oh,  I  see.  Yes,  I  suppose  they  keep  very  fine  com- 
pany nowadays?" 

Timesman  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  shook  his  head. 
"Mr.  Jack  and  his  friend,  the  Honourable  Adolphus 
Faring,  have  done  all  they  could  for  them.  They  go 
everywhere  you  can  go  by  paying  at  the  door.  But 
Mr.  Jack  is  accepted,  gratis.  Especially  by  the  ladies, 
I  gather,"  and  he  laughed  again.  "Oh,  yes-  Can't  live 
without  him,  some  of  them — ring  him  up  last  thing  at 
night  and  first  thing  in  the  morning.  B'ut  the  family — 
well,  they're  a  harder  proposition.  They're  too  half- 
and-half." 

"Half-and-half !"  echoed  Sarah,  flushing  indignantly. 

"You  know,  vulgar  without  being  funny.     Smelling 

of  money,  but  not  smelling  strong  enough;  just  so-so; 

not  this,  or  that.     What  was  the  old  buster?     Trade, 

of  course?" 

"He  was  a  business  gentleman." 

"Yes,  I  saw  that,  first  time  he  went  through  the  books 
with  me." 

Sarah  rose,  bristling  with  indignation.  "Don't  you 
talk  to  me  like  this !"  she  cried.  "Don't  you  ever  talk 
like  this !" 

"Ssh!  Ssh!  There's  the  bell.  Drawing-room,  I 
expect.  Come  along  with  me,"  and  he  led  her  into  the 
corridor.  "I'll  fix  up  your  interview,  and  in  exchange 
you  must  really  prompt  me  with  a  hint  or  two.  I  mean* 


PROSPERITY  103 

to  give  them  a  trial  — anyhow,  to  the  end  of  the  season. 
Is  it  good  enough  to  go  on  with?" 

"I  found  it  good  enough  for  twenty  years." 

"Then  there  must  be  something  to  them.  Did  the  old 
man  drink  in  your  time?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"He  does  now.  I  don't  say  soaking,  but  more  than's 
beneficial  to  him.  There.  Go  in  there.  It's  his 
library.  I'll  summon  you  as  soon  as  I  can  manage  it." 

And  Sarah  was  left  to  recover  her  composure  alone  in 
the  library.  This  room  too,  although  small,  was  im- 
posing. Its  walls  were  lined  with  white  bookcases, 
above  which  a  crimson  paper  stretched  to  the  lofty 
cornice ;  on  top  of  the  bookcases  stood  marble  busts  of 
Socrates  and  three  other  famous  philosophers ;  across 
one  corner  of  the  room  a  formidable  writing-bureau 
occupied  a  lot  of  space  and  showed  an  untidy  mass  of 
papers.  Sarah  looked  wonderingly  at  this  inextricable 
litter  of  documents  and  stationery.  She  remembered 
the  simplicity  and  methodic  neatness  of  Mr.  Welby's 
writing-table  in  the  old  days. 

Meanwhile  in  the  dining-room  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Welby 
had  been  talking  confidentially.  They  were  interrupted 
at  first  by  the  return  of  one  of  the  guests. 

"Forgive  me,"  cried  Sir  John,  bursting  in.  "But 
your  fascinating  daughter,  that  delicious  Miss  Prim- 
rose, has  sent  me  to  find  her  powder-box.  Thinks  she 
dropped  it  under  the  table,"  and  he  skipped  round  the 
chairs  and  went  down  upon  his  knees  to  search  the 
floor. 

"He-he-he-he!"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  tittering  in  grati- 
fication. "But  really,  Sir  John,  you  shouldn't  per- 


104  A  LITTLE  MORE 

mit  her  to  send  you  about  on  errands  in  this  way." 

"Hbnour  and  privilege,"  cried  Sir  John,  for  the 
moment  hidden  from  them  by  the  table.  "Greatest 
privilege  and  delight.  Ah,  here  it  is,"  and  he  got  upon 
his  rather  shaky  legs  again. 

He  was  a  man  of  about  fifty,  with  a  few  streaks  of 
light-coloured  hair  plastered  across  his  bald  head.  He 
had  a  supremely  aristocratic  and  fashionable  air,  but 
somehow  seemed  worn-out,  and  very  feeble  physically, 
in  spite  of  his  sprightly,  almost  capering  gait.  His 
manner  of  speaking  was  assured,  and  yet  finicking,  and 
he  spluttered  when  excited.  The  effort  of  groping  on 
the  floor  and  rising  to  the  upright  attitude  brought  the 
blood  to  his  sallow  face,  making  him  for  the  moment 
seem  apoplectic  as  well  as  rickety. 

"I  must  fly  back  to  her.  Forgive  me.  She  wants  to 
powder  her  nose.  Says  it's  red.  A  libel  on  the  charm- 
ing feature!  Ha,  Ha!" 

As  soon  as  he  had  shut  the  door  Mr.  Welby  spoke 
very  confidentially. 

"My  dear!     Who  is  Sir  John?'* 

"Oh!"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  with  quiet  satisfaction,  "he 
is  just  Primrose's  latest  flame.  The  conquests  that 
girl  is  having!" 

"Did  you  ask  him  to  dinner?" 

"No,"  replied  Mrs,  Welby,  in  the  same  tone;  "but  I 
told  Primrose  to.  Far  better  that  they  should  meet 
under  their  father's  roof.  He  has  been  pursuing  her 
everywhere  during  the  last  week,  and  I  don't  want  her 
to  get  talked  about." 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  did,"  said  Mr.  Welby  simply. 

"Only  in  a  certain  way.  No  one  wishes  to  be 
ignored." 


PROSPERITY  105 

"Just  so.  But  is  this  a  case?  Does  he  mean  busi- 
ness ?" 

"It's  for  Prim  to  decide.  But  I  fancy  she's  only 
playing  with  him.  He  is  in  deadly  earnest,  of  course. 
He  told  me  at  dinner,  in  so  many  words,  that  she  has 
made  a  slave  of  him." 

Mr.  Welby  chuckled.  "All  the  same,"  he  said,  "I'd 
wish  to  know  a  bit  more  about  him.  Always  like  to  get 
my  bearings.  Where  Zoo-Zoo?" 

"In.  your  study." 

"Ah,"  and  Mr.  Welby  gave  a  sigh  of  weariness.  "I 
must  go  there  and  tackle  my  papers.  I've  the  devil's 
own  accumulation  of  letters  to  attend  to." 

"You'd  be  much  wiser  to  have  a  nap,  and  freshen 
yourself  for  the  Quartzs'.  But  about  Sir  John !  He's 
a  baronet — and  an  old  baronet." 

"Too  old  for  Prim,  to  my  thinking.  What  would 
you  give  him — fifty-five?" 

Mrs.  Welby  explained  that  she  was  alluding  to  the 
date  of  the  creation  of  the  baronetcy,  not  to  the  age  of 
the  present  holder  of  the  title ;  and  she  told  her  husband 
how  Sir  John  had  further  let  fall  in  his  talk  to  Primrose 
that  he  possessed  an  immense  country  place  with  won- 
derful gardens,  a  castle  in  Scotland,  and  a  town  house 
which  he  did  not  occupy.  Then  she  spoke  again  of 
Primrose's  successes  and  the  gratification  they  caused 
her.  She  had  counted  on  the  effect  that  would  be 
produced  by  Violet's  stately  beauty,  but  she  really  had 
not  expected  to  see  everybody  fall  prostrate  before 
Prim's  little  flashing  face.  "But  so  it  is.  Vi,  whether 
she  wants  to  or  not,  seems  to  inspire  the  deep,  settled 
kind  of  affection,  but  Prim  simply  turns  all  their  heads. 
I  don't  say  that  Prim  may  not  do  a  great  deal  better 


106  A  LITTLE  MORE 

than  Sir  John;  but  should  she  decide  in  his  favour,  it 
will  be  My  lady  and  her  ladyship  with  her — and  it  will 
sound  nice,  as  you  said  just  now;  whereas,  Violet,  in 
marrying  an  Honourable,  will  be  only  Mrs.,  all  said  and 
done." 

"Ah!  Violet  and  Faring!  That  seems  going  the 
way  you  anticipated?" 

"Yes,  it  has  all  come  about  so  naturally.  As  Jack's 
best  friend,  and  such  a  constant  visitor — it  can  hardly 
end  any  other  way,  unless  you  put  your  foot  down  and 
stop  it.  He  hasn't  spoken  to  you  yet,  has  he?" 

"Not  a  word.  And  I  haven't  encouraged  him  to 
speak.  I've  been  waiting  for  you  to  tell  me  it  was  all 
right.  But,  between  you  and  me,  I  don't  understand 
why  his  mother  has  never  been  near  us.  He's  always 
saying  she's  coming." 

"Yes,    I    must    confess "     Then    Mrs.    Welby 

stopped  talking  and  began  to  titter.  Timesman  had 
entered  the  room. 

"A  person,  sir,"  said  Timesman,  very  respectfully, 
"has  called  to  see  you — on  business." 

"I  won't  see  anybody — on  business." 

"Very  good,  sir.  I  thought,  perhaps,  a  little 
later " 

"Certainly  not.     I'm  tired  out." 

"Very  good,  sir,"  and  Timesman  withdrew. 

"You  ought  to  get  forty  winks  before  you  change 
your  coat,"  said  Mrs.  Welby  sympathetically. 

"Perhaps  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  replenishing  his 
glass  with  old  brandy.  "But  you  were  telling  me  about 
Adolphus  Faring." 

"Well,  you  can  see  for  yourself  how  it  is  with  him. 


PROSPERITY  107 

On  Violet's  side  it  is  certainly  an  inclination,  but  his 
devotion  to  her  is  quite  touching.  He  follows  her 
about — well,  like  a  little  dog." 

"Does  he  really?" 

"He  won't  let  her  out  of  his  sight — seems  miserable 
the  moment  she's  not  at  his  side." 

"Well,  well." 

"It's  too  apparent.  Hush  !  Not  a  word.  Here  she 
is." 

And  in  fact  Violet  had  opened  the  door  from  the 
morningroom. 

"Where's  Dolly  Faring?"  she  asked  anxiously.  "He 
hasn't  said  good-night  and  gone,  has  he?"  And  she 
added  that  he  was  with  her  at  the  gramophone  a 
moment  ago,  and  then  when  she  turned  round  to  hand 
him  a  record  he  had  disappeared. 

"He  may  be  in  the  hall,"  said  her  mother.  "Times- 
man  has  put  the  liqueurs  there." 

"Oh,  that's  it,"  said  Violet,  evidently  relieved.  "I'll 
go  to  him.  He'd  think  it  so  odd  if  I  deserted  him,  and 
left  him  all  by  himself  out  there."  As  she  spoke  she 
hurried  across  the  room  to  the  other  door.  Then  she 
turned.  "Daddy,  he  wants  us  to  take  tickets  for  a 
grand  fancy  ball  that's  coming  off  next  month.  You'll 
be  nice  to  him  about  it,  won't  you?  I'll  bring  him  in 
presently." 

And  keeping  her  promise  she  reappeared  after  a  few 
minutes,  together  with  Mr.  Adolphus  Faring. 

He  was  a  pale  clean-shaved  young  man,  whose 
straight  dark  hair  was  brushed  rigorously  backward 
from  his  forehead  in  the  prevailing  mode,  and  whose 
eyes  and  other  features  had  no  expression  of  any  sort 


108  A  LITTLE  MORE 

whatever.  He  must  have  strenuously  cultivated  this 
impassiveness,  and  now  it  was  so  complete  as  to  give 
one  a  feeling  that  nothing  on  earth  could  ever  surprise 
or  shock  him.  He  had  a  pleasant  murmuring  voice, 
an  even  ripple  of  sound  without  ups  and  downs  or 
vibrations. 

"Not  sure  if  King  and  Queen  comin'  themselves,"  he 
said,  speaking  of  the  fancy  ball,  "but  the  others,  all 
of  'em.  So  people  who  want  to  rub  shoulders  with 
Royalty  will  get  their  money's  worth,  don't  you  know. 
All  these  foreign  potentates,  too.  Bar  larks,  Miss 
Violet,  it'll  be  a  top-hole  rag,"  and  he  made  the  sound 
of  a  rippling  laugh,  without  the  slightest  trace  of  mirth 
being  perceptible  on  his  face.  "Stars  of  the  stage, 
don't  you  know,  the  elite  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  and 
what  the  papers  call  City  magnates — that's  you,  Mr. 
Welby — everybody  who  is  anybody,"  and  he  laughed 
again.  "For  charity,  you  know.  My  mother's  in- 
terestin'  herself  in  it.  The  date  was  only  fixed  this 
afternoon — July  27th.  So  I  have  told  you  among  the 
very  first." 

"It's  most  awfully  good  of  you,"  said  Violet.  "Isn't 
it,  mummy?" 

"I  always  appreciate  Mr.  Faring's  consideration," 
said  Mrs.  Welby  graciously.  "By  the  way,  speaking 
of  your  mother,  the  Countess !  When  may  we  hope 
for  the  pleasure  of " 

"I  think  she  said  she  was  comin'  to-morrow,"  Mr. 
Faring  answered  promptly.  "Or  the  day  after." 

"That  will  be  very  nice  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Welby, 
with  a  pleased  titter. 

"Well    now,    my    dear    Faring,"    said    old    Welby 


PROSPERITY  109 

cheerily.  "In  re  this  famous  ball,  what  will  be  the 
damage,  eh?" 

"The — er — what?     I  don't  quite  follow." 

"It's  only  daddy's  chaff,"  said  Violet  hastily.  "He 
means " 

"I  mean,"  said  Mr.  Welby  simply,  "that  I  want  to 
know  the  price  of  the  tickets." 

And  when  he  heard  the  price,  he  so  obviously  con- 
sidered it  an  "eye-opener,"  even  in  these  days,  that 
Violet,  dreading  lest  he  should  be  vulgar  about  it, 
assumed  her  proprietorial  attitude  and  hurried  Mr. 
Faring  away  with  her. 

"By  Jupiter !"  said  Mr.  Welby. 

"Come  along,"  said  Violet  to  her  Adolphus.  "Would 
you  like  me  to  sit  with  you  in  the  hall,  or  shall  we 
go  back  to  the  drawing-room?" 

"I  leave  you  to  decide,"  said  Mr.  Faring,  as  Violet 
led  him  into  the  hall,  and  again  he  laughed.  "We  don't 
seem  wanted  in  the  drawing-room.  Your  sister  and 
the  old  buck  are  carrying  on  so  that  the  whole  room 
seemed  hardly  big  enough  for  'em." 

Mr.  Welby,  overhearing  these  last  words,  did  not 
like  them.  Some  of  his  old-fashioned  ideas  still  linger- 
ing in  his  mind,  he  suggested  that  Mrs.  Welby  had 
better  go  to  the  drawing-room  herself  to  act  as 
chaperon. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  quite  unnecessary,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 
"It's  never  done.  Any  fussing  of  that  sort  is  held  to 
be  utterly  absurd — and  Primrose  would  resent  it  at 
once.  Besides,  if,  as  I  fully  believe,  Sir  John  is  on 
the  point  of  making  a  definite  declaration,  it  is  only 
fair  to  give  him  opportunities." 


110  A  LITTLE  MORE 

But  still  Mr.  Welby  did  not  like  it.  He  said  if  Mrs. 
Welby  would  not  go,  Violet  must;  and,  calling  her 
in  from  the  hall,  he  so  instructed  her.  Violet  was  ir- 
ritated but  submissive. 

"All  right,"  she  whispered. 

"And  I  say,"  whispered  her  father.  "Who  is  Sir 
John — I  mean,  exactly?  I  shall  look  him  up  in 
Oo-Zoo,  but  I  want  full  details.  You  sound  Faring. 
He'll  probably  know." 

"Yes,"  whispered  Violet,  "I'll  ask  him,  if  I  can  get  a 
chance.  But  won't  it  seem  very  queer — I  mean,  our 
not  knowing  ourselves?  Doesn't  Primrose  know?" 

Left  alone  once  more,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Welby  spoke 
about  their  son  Jack;  and  as  they  went  on  talking  a 
very  careworn  look  came  into  the  mother's  eyes,  and 
the  father's  mouth  drooped  fretfully.  So  many  trou- 
blesome things  concerning  Jack  were  as  yet  known  only 
to  Mrs.  Welby;  but  the  things  that  Mr.  Welby  knew 
were  sufficient  to  worry  him. 

Jack  was  dining  out,  as  usual.  He  had  promised  to 
return  in  time  for  the  musical  party.  It  would  be  very 
wrong  of  him  if  he  did  not  go  with  them  to  the  party 
given  by  Mrs.  Quartz  and  her  daughter. 

"Father,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  with  tenderness, 
after  a  pause,  "I  hate  being  obliged  to  tell  you,  but 
Jack  seems  to  have  outrun  the  constable  again.  He — 
he  has  asked  me  to  ask  you  if  you  would  mind  him  biting 
your  ear." 

Mr.  Welby  got  up  and  walked  about  the  room. 
"Mother,  this  isn't  right.  It's  too  bad  of  him.  How 
much  does  he  want  now?" 

"Well " 

"Out  with  it." 


PROSPERITY  111 

"One  thousand,  if  possible — five  hundred  without 
fail." 

Mr.  Welby  waved  his  arms.  "No,  upon  my  soul,  it 
**  too  bad  of  him.  The  second  time  in  a  month.  No, 
it  can't  go  on." 

"I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  gently  and  deprecat- 
ingly.  "There's  no  getting  away  from  it.  He  is  ex- 
travagant." 

"Damnably!" 

"Yes.  But  what  we  must  remember  is  that  youth 
will  not — cannot — look  at  things  from  the  point  of  view 
of  age.  I'm  sure  I've  heard  you  say  that  yourself. 
We  must  be  lenient.  Jack  is  so  splendid;  he  might  do 
so  well — but  I  won't  disguise  my  anxiety.  Sometimes 
I  lie  awake  at  night  dreading  that  he  is  going  to  take  a 
bad  turn." 

"Seems  to  me  he's  taken  it  already,"  and  Mr.  Welby 
sat  down  with  a  heavy,  weary  air. 

"Oh,  no !"  In  one  way  you  can  say  that,  with  all 
his  natural  advantages,  he  has  the  world  at  his  feet. 
In  another  way,  of  course,  he  is  exposed  to  such  fearful 
temptations.  A  young  man  subsisting  on  an  allow- 
ance  " 

"But  he  doesn't  subsist  on  it — doesn't  even  try  to. 
He  had  the  first  half  year  in  advance,  and  it  didn't  last 
him  three  weeks.  Yet  when  I  told  him  the  annual 
amount,  he  said  it  was  a  precious  big  one." 

"Oh,  youve  done  all  you  could  reasonably  be  ex- 
pected to  do  for  him."  And  Mrs.  Welby  touched  her 
husband's  clasped  hands  affectionately.  "I'm  sure 
he  understands  himself  how  difficult  it  would  be  for  you 
to  do  much  more  for  him.  No,  I  was  only  thinking 
myself  that  he'd  be  safer  with  an  avocation.  If  it  was 


112  A  LITTLE  MORE 

in  your  power  somehow  to  set  him  up !     If  you  were  like 
Mr.  Jacobson,  downstairs " 

"Ah,  yes.     Confound  that  fellow!" 

"If  you  could  buy  Jack  a  farm — or  a  pack  of 
hounds — anything  to  occupy  him.  I  do  want  to  see  him 
more  settled" 

"I  thought  you  were  hoping  that  things  would  work 
out  with  Miss  Quartz.  If  he  made  a  rich  marriage 
like  that,  well " 

"Yes,  that  was  my  great  hope;  but  I'm  afraid  it's 
going  to  be  a  disappointment — like  so  many  others. 
She  showed  quite  plainly  that  she  had  fallen  head  over 
ears  in  love  with  him,  but  he  hasn't  treated  her  with 
sufficient  consideration.  No  self-respecting  girl  will 
consent  to  be  neglected." 

"Certainly  not.  Anyhow,  not  a  girl  who's  coming 
into  half  a  million." 

"No,  indeed.  I'm  glad  to  say  Violet  tells  me  to  go 
on  hoping." 

"She  does,  does,  she  ?     Fetch  Violet — here  now." 

And  he  compelled  Mrs.  Welby  to  go  tittering  to  the 
drawing-room  and  bring  her  elder  daughter  to  explain 
at  once  why  she  still  felt  hopeful. 

"Vi,"  he  said,  "we  were  speaking  of  Jack  and  Irene. 
I  don't  want  a  lot  of  conjectures.  Do  you  If  now  any- 
thing?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  Violet  firmly.  "I  know  that  Irene 
would  be  his  for  the  asking.  But  if  he  plays  the  fool, 
as  he  does  about  everything  else,  he'll  lose  her." 

"But  she  hasn't  given  him  up?"  Mrs.  Welby  asked 
anxiously.  "You  know  that — for  certain?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  know,  for  it 
wouldn't  be  honourable.  Now  you  really  must  let  me 


PROSPERITY  113 

get  back  to  Dolly.     He  will  think  it  so  bizarre  if  I 
keep  running  away  from  him  like  this." 

"Very  good." 

Mr.  Welby  got  up,  stretched  himself,  and  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  cast  off  dull  care.  "Don't  you  bother," 
he  said  to  his  wife  very  kindly.  "We'll  just  hope  for 
the  best,  with  Master  Jack — and,  yes,  he  shall  have  the 
five  hundred." 

"Bless  you!" 

"Don't  mention  it."  Mr.  Welby  sighed,  and  then 
forced  himself  to  laugh.  "We  mustn't  let  things  get 
spoilt  by  fretting.  Here  we  are,  after  all.  Who'd 
have  thought  it?  Here  we  sit  at  dinner — people  with 
handles  to  their  names  just  dropping  in  to  take  pot 
luck — off  to  a  party — going  to  rub  shoulders  with 
Royalties  next  month,  and  blow  the  expense."  And  he 
chuckled.  "D'you  ever  look  back,  old  lady?" 

"Oh,  no !"  said  Mrs.  Welby.     "I  look  forward." 

"What  to?"  And  Mr.  Welby  became  grave  and 
stared  at  her. 

"To  passing  through  all  these  little  anxieties  and 
feeling  more  settled." 

"Ah,  yes.  Just  so.  Well,  I'm  off  to  the  study," 
and  he  moved  slowly  across  the  room.  "I  know  one 
thing  I  wish  for." 

"What's  that?" 

"I  wish  I  was  ten  years  younger.  Then  I  shouldn't 
feel  so  tired  of  an  evening." 

"Have  your  nap." 

"No  time.     Must  do  those  letters." 


CHAPTER  II 

PROBABLY  poor  Sarah  could  not  have  caught 
him  at  a  more  unfortunate  moment.     He  started 
at  the  sight  of  the  old  servant  meekly  sitting 
there  in  her  bonnet  and  black  jacket,  looked  at  her 
glumly,  and  as  soon  as  she  touched  on  the  motive  of 
her  visit,  he  spoke  hardly  and  unkindly. 

"Oh,  yes,  it's  the  old  story,  I  suppose." 

"The  old  story,  sir !"  Wounded  to  the  quick,  Sarah 
repeated  his  words  twice.  "The  old  story !  Do  you 
say  that  to  me,  sir?  I  didn't  expect  you  to  say  that. 
It's  the  first  time  I've  ever  had  to  ask  a  favour." 

"But  why  me?"  said  Mr.  Welby  testily.  "Why 
shouldn't  somebody  else  wait?  I  have  to  pay  my  rent 
— and  a  mighty  high  one.  This  flat  stands  me  in  over 
twelve  hundred  a  year.  Well,  I  don't  go  to  the  land- 
lord and  say,  'Owing  to  unforeseen  expenses  incurred 
by  the  family,  I  must  ask  you  to  let  the  rent  run  on  a 
bit,  till  I  have  squared  up  with  the  butcher,  the  baker, 
the  dressmaker,  and  the  tailor.' ' 

"Oh,  but  it's  so  different,"  said  Sarah  in  distress. 
"You  know  I've  sunk  all  my  money  in  the  venture." 

"May  be.  But  you  didn't  set  up  a  lodging-house 
to  oblige  me,  or  on  my  advice." 

"No,  sir." 

"Then  you  can't  blame  me  if  it  fails." 

"It  shan't  fail,"  said  Sarah  bravely.  "I'll  pull  it 
round  yet.  All  I  ask  for  is  time." 

114 


PROSPERITY  115 

"It  isn't  business  to  ask  me  to  give  it  to  you.  I  sold 
you  the  house  on  fair  terms." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  fixed  a  low  interest  on  the  mortgage.  I  didn't 
haggle  with  you  over  the  furniture." 

"No,  sir.  But  if  you'd  only  just  instruct  Mr.  Rolls 
not  to  press  me " 

The  library  door  had  remained  open,  and  Mr.  Welby 
was  talking  so  loudly  that  Mrs.  Welby  heard  him.  She 
came  now  to  discover  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 
Sarah  turned  to  her  appealingly. 

"My  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  "is  the  only  judge 
of  what  is  right  and  proper — but,  of  course,  if  he 
could  stretch  a  point " 

"Sir,  you  won't  say  no,"  Sarah  pleaded.  "If  it's 
only  for  another  six  weeks." 

"That's  the  half  quarter,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  and  he 
seemed  to  be  swayed  in  opposite  directions  by  his  ir- 
ritability and  natural  kindliness.  "Well,  if  I  do,  un- 
derstand, not  a  day  more.  It's  as  much  for  your  good 
as  mine.  If  your  enterprise  has  come  to  nothing,  the 
sooner  you  recognize  the  fact  the  better." 

"Thank  you,  sir.     You  shan't  regret  it." 

Sarah  was  both  wounded  and  disappointed,  but  val- 
iantly making  the  best  of  it,  she  smiled  and  spoke  with 
cheerful  gratitude.  As  they  conducted  her  to  the  hall 
Mrs.  Welby  asked  her  questions,  showing  a  certain 
wistful  interest  with  regard  to  the  old  house. 

"I  suppose,  Sarah,  that  you've  changed  the  place 
beyond  recognition?" 

"Oh,  no,  ma'am.  You'd  be  surprised  how  little  I've 
changed.  Mr.  Welby's  and  your  bedroom,  with  the 


116  A  LITTLE  MORE 

dressing-room — well,  that,  of  course,  is  my  principal 
suite." 

"And  Primrose's  room?" 

"I've  made  that  a  little  bed-sitting-room,  ma'am. 
.  .  .  You'll  be  glad  to  hear,  sir,  that  I've  put  a  new 
grate  in  Miss  Violet's  room — and  renewed  the  door  in 
Mr.  Jack's." 

"And  the  old  dining-room?"  asked  Mr.  Welby, 
wistfully. 

"Just  the  same,  ma'am — except  for  small  tables,  of 
course;  and  two  nice  pictures  of  the  King  and  Queen, 
in  place  of  the  portraits  of  you  and  Mr.  Welby." 
"I  might  motor  out  and  have  a  look  at  it  one  day." 
"I  wish  you  would,"  said   Sarah,  cordially.     "The 
young  ladies,  too" ;  and  she  spoke  with  great  affection. 
"How  are  they,  ma'am?" 
"Oh,  quite  well,  thank  you." 

Then  Sarah  had  a  little  outburst  of  love  that  she 

could  not  repress.     "Oh,  I  would  like  to  see  them — if 

only  for  a  moment.     I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  ask  it?" 

"Yes,  why  not?"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  kindly.     "They 

have  guests  to  entertain,  but "     She  had  gone  to 

the  drawing-room  door,  and,  opening  it,  she  called 
softly.  "Violet.  Primrose.  Come  here  a  moment"; 
and  as  they  came  to  her  she  whispered,  "It's  dear  old 
Sarah.  Shut  the  door." 

Violet  and  Primrose  came  into  the  hall,  seeming  very 
much  bored.     They  both  shook  hands  with  Sarah. 

"There  they  are,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  "all  in  their  fine 
feathers." 

"Don't  be  absurd,  daddy,"  said  Violet.     "These  are 
the  oldest  rags  I  have." 


PROSPERITY  117 

"Primrose,  you've  torn  your  flounce,"  said  Mrs. 
Welby.  "However  have  you  done  that?" 

"Mummy,  please  don't  fuss,"  said  Primrose.  "Well, 
Sarah,  you  jolly  old,  funny  old  thing,  how  goes 
it?" 

"Well  there!  To  be  sure!"  Sarah,  almost  over- 
come, brought  out  a  handkerchief  and  wiped  away  in- 
cipient tears.  Then  she  turned  from  one  to  the  other, 
lost  in  mingled  astonishment  and  admiration.  Their 
bare  arms  and  shoulders  bewildered  her;  the  bright- 
ness of  their  frocks  made  her  blink ;  she  talked  volubly 
and  rather  incoherently,  in  order  to  conceal  her  emo- 
tions. "Aren't  you  afraid  of  taking  cold,  without  so 
much  as  a  shawl  round  your  neck?  My  two  dears,  as 
I  used  to  say.  Well,  they  do  make  a  lovely  pair,  don't 
they,  sir?  And  you  call  him  daddy  now!  Not  father 
and  mother  as  it  used  to  be.  All  strange  and  different 
now,  isn't  it?  I — I  feel  just  anyhow.  But  you  must 
forgive  old  Sarah,  and  any  liberties  she  takes  through 
ignorance."  And  she  scrutinized  them  both  more 
searchingly.  "But  I  don't  like  to  notice  such  dark 
circles  round  your  eyes,  Miss  Violet.  Nor  yours  either, 
Miss  Primrose.  You're  both  of  you  thinner  too.  Oh, 
you  are  getting  thin.  It's  the  gaiety,  of  course.  Not 
enough  bedtime,  /  think.  And  a  grand  party  to-night 
— as  the  man-servant  was  saying.  .  .  .  Well  now,  I 
mustn't  trespass  on  your  kindness.  Thank  you, 
ma'am,  for  letting  me  have  a  glimpse  of  them." 

Timesman  stood  in  the  lobby  ready  to  let  her  out, 
and  Sarah  was  going  when  all  at  once  she  nodded 
mysteriously  at  Violet  and  beckoned  her  away  from  the 
others. 


118  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Miss  Vi,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "I  saw  Mr. 
Carillon  yesterday." 

"Oh,  did  you?"  said  Violet  coldly. 

"Yes,  looking  so  sad !     Oh,  he  did  look  sad." 

"Really?" 

Sarah  nodded  her  head.  "Yes.  I  said  I  was  hop- 
ing for  a  chance  to  see  you,  and  I  asked  him  if  he  had 
any  message." 

"That  was  very  wrong  of  you,"  said  Violet  quickly. 
"You  shouldn't  have  done  that." 

"I  couldn't  help  it.  He  said  he  wasn't  able  to  send 
no  message  that  you'd  care  to  receive;  and  he  turns 
his  head,  so's  I  shouldn't  see  his  face,  and  walks  on. 
Then  all  in  a  moment  he  comes  back,  and  says  yes,  I  was 
to  tell  you  lie  hadn't  altered,  if  you  had." 

Violet  stood  quite  still,  staring  straight  in  front  of 
her,  while  Sarah  made  her  final  adieux. 

"Good-night,  sir.  Good-night,  ma'am.  And  a  happy, 
happy  party  for  you  all.'.' 

A  little  later  Jack  Welby  let  himself  in  with  his  latch- 
key, and  found  Mrs.  Welby  sitting  alone  in  the  hall. 
After  kissing  her  he  asked  immediately  for  news. 

"Father  will  do  it,"  she  said;  "but  it  has  upset  him." 

"Sorry,"  said  Jack  carelessly,  and  he  laughed. 
"Did  you  get  the  thousand  out  of  him?" 

"No — the  five  hundred." 

"Oh,  well,  beggars  mustn't  be  choosers,"  and  Jack 
became  gloomy.  "Perhaps  you  can  try  him  for  the 
other  monkey  to-morrow.  Where  is  he  now?" 

"Writing  some  letters." 

"He  may  as  well  write  the  cheque  as  well  as  the  let- 


PROSPERITY  119 

ters.     Ask  him,  will  you?     I'd  like  to  take  it  with  me 
— and  I  want  to  be  getting  on." 

"But  you  are  coming  to  Mrs.  Quartz's?"  said  Mrs. 
Welby,  in  perturbation. 

"Sorry,  no.  I  have  another  engagement  that  I 
can't  get  out  of." 

"Then,  as  Mrs.  Welby  implored  him  to  do  his  duty, 
he  grew  more  and  more  sombre.  Standing  with  his  back 
to  the  empty  fireplace,  letting  her  exhaust  all  her  argu- 
ments and  entreaties,  he  looked  exactly  what  he  was — 
an  extremely  dissipated  young  man.  No  one  could 
have  recognized  in  him  the  cheerily  cynical  and  good- 
humouredly  facetious  city  clerk  of  a  year  ago;  but  he 
had  developed  a  quiet,  self-confident  swagger  that  car- 
ried him  along  in  the  society  which  he  principally  af- 
fected, and  a  sort  of  devil-may-care  handsomeness 
peculiar  to  himself  had  attracted  more  people  than  the 
rich  young  lady  about  whom  Mrs.  Welby  was  talking. 

"Jack,  be  reasonable — for  my  sake,  for  all  our  sakes. 
Don't  throw  away  your  chances.  If  you  refuse  to  go, 
Miss  Quartz  can  but  take  your  absence  as  a  slight. 
Naturally,  after  the  encouragement  she  has  given  you, 
she  expects  you  to  follow  it  up." 

"Mother,"  said  Jack,  very  gloomily,  "you  know  that 
I  don't  even  consider  myself  free  to  follow  it  up." 

"Of  course  you're  free,"  said  Mrs.  Welby  with 
strength.  "Oh,  Jack,  you  would  verily  break  my  heart 
if  you  didn't  drop  all  that  old  nonsense." 

Jack  answered  with  a  sombre  face  and  a  sneering 
voice. 

"There's  been  a  good  deal  of  dropping  in  this  family, 
hasn't  there?  Violet  and  Carillon!  We  shall  get  a 
bad  name  if  we  aren't  careful." 


120  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Don't  go  back  to  that.     You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  he  wasn't  man  enough  for  Violet." 
"And  Prim  and  Perkins?" 

"There  was  nothing  whatever  there.  The  very 
mildest  flirtation.  No  promises  of  any  kind." 

Jack  laughed.  "Have  it  your  own  way,  mother  dear. 
Now  run  and  get  the  cheque  for  me,  will  you?  And, 
look  here.  Tell  Irene  I'm  sorry  I  can't  come,  but  I'll 
go  for  a  ride  with  her  to-morrow  morning — very  likely. 
Yes,  tell  her  I'll  ring  her  up  early." 

Then  Jack  went  to  look  for  his  friend  Dolly  Faring  in 
the  drawing-room.  He  ruthlessly  told  Faring  to  get 
his  hat  and  coat,  and  go  out  with  him.  Violet  struggled 
hard  to  retain  the  use  of  her  property,  but  without 
avail.  There  was  to  be  a  little  game  of  baccarat  at  a 
certain  fellow's  rooms — as  Jack  informed  Faring  in  a 
whisper. 

Then  he  went  to  the  library  to  fetch  the  cheque. 
"It's  awfully  decent  of  you,"  he  said  to  his  father, 
"and  I'm  much  obliged." 

"Yes,  but  remember,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  "this  is  the 
very  last  time." 

"Oh,    yes,    rather,"    said    Jack    lightly.     "That's 
quite  understood."     Then,  going,  he  returned  to  ask 
a  question.     "I  say.     Who  is  Sir  John?" 
"Well,  he's  a  baronet,  to  began  with." 
"And  to  end  with,  I  should  think,"  said  Jack  scorn- 
fully.    "I  don't  like  the  look  of  him.     One  of  Prim's 
pick-ups,  I  suppose";  and  he  gave  a  hurried  word  of 
advice  to  his  mother.     "I  shouldn't  let  that  girl  make 
too  big  an  ass  of  herself  if  I  were  you.     Bye-bye." 
Next  minute  he  and  Mr.  Faring  left  the  flat. 


PROSPERITY  121 

Violet  coining  into  the  hall  presently  complained 
to  her  parents. 

"I  do  think  it  is  mean  and  disgusting  of  Jack  not 
to  spare  Dolly  for  one  evening.**  And  she  flung  her- 
self into  a  leather  chair  and  fumed.  "He  is  too 
selfish.  He  must  have  known  perfectly  well  that  I 
wanted  to  take  Dolly  on  to  the  Quartzs'." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "But  why 
have  you  left  your  sister  and  Sir  John  alone  to- 
gether?" 

"Because  two  are  company  and  three  are  none," 
said  Violet  curtly. 

"Yes,  that  may  be,  but  I  don't  like  it.  Fm  telling 
your  mother  so.  Your  brother  isn't  taken  with  the 
looks  of  him.  He  thinks  Primrose  is  going  too  fast, 
without  our  having  got  our  bearings." 

And,  in  spite  of  remonstrances,  he  insisted  that 
Mrs.  Welby  should  go  to  the  drawing-room  and  break 
up  the  tete-a-tete.  "Get  rid  of  Primrose,"  he  said; 
"and  then  you  just  drop  a  few  hints.  Sound  him.  Ask 
him  what  his  intentions  are — not  straight  out,  of 
course.  Use  your  tact." 

In  the  drawing-room  Primrose  and  her  elderly  ad- 
mirer were  carrying  on  their  badinage  with  unabated 
vigour.  Primrose  was  seated  at  one  end  of  a  sofa,  keep- 
ing him  at  a  proper  distance  by  her  graceful  manipula- 
tion of  a  large  fan,  while  she  bewitched  him  with  her 
prattle;  and  he,  at  the  other  end  of  the  sofa,  made 
feeble  efforts  to  draw  nearer  and  spluttered  in  admira- 
tion. 

"No,  adorable  tyrant,  I  cannot  accompany  you  to 


122  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Mrs.  Quartz's  music,  because  I,  ah,  don't  know  the  lady 

— don't  want  to  know  the  lady " 

"But  if  I  order  you  to  come?"  said  Primrose  imperi- 
ously, and  she  flashed  her  eyes  at  him  above  the  fan. 
"Oh,  ha-ha — be  merciful  as  you  are  strong";  and 
Sir    John    spluttered    ecstatically.     "Hate    concerts. 
Don't  know  one  tune   from   another." 

"Music  hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage  breast." 
"But  my  breast  isn't  savage.     It  is  all  tenderness 
— melted  by  your  charms — melted  to  a  jelly." 

"How  utterly  ridiculous,"  said  Primrose,  in  a  softer 
tone.  "Why,  you  haven't  known  me  a  full  week  yet." 

"Terrible  devastation  can  be  wrought  in  a  week. 
From  the  first  day  you  have  made  me  your  slave." 

"A  very  disobedient  one,"  said  Primrose,  pouting. 
"Suppose  I  ask  you  to  come  with  me  as  a  favour — Oh, 

damn " 

For  just  then  Mrs.  Welby  had  entered  the  room, 
tittering  very  nervously. 

"He-he-he-he.  Primrose  darling,  daddy  wants  you. 
I  will  do  my  best  to  entertain  Sir  John  during  your 
absence." 

Primrose,  pouting  and  sulky,  departed;  and  her 
mother  and  the  guest  remained  closeted  together  for 
perhaps  ten  minutes.  Then  the  electric  bell  sounded, 
and  both  emerged  into  the  hall.  Sir  John  had  a  weary 
sorrowful  air,  while  Mrs.  Welby  seemed  agitated  al- 
though struggling  to  maintain  great  dignity. 

"Sir  John  is  going,"  she  said.  "Timesman,  Sir 
John's  hat." 

"What  is  it?"  cried  Primrose,  directly  the  guest  had 
gone.  "Whatever  has  happened,  I've  a  right  to  know." 


PROSPERITY  123 

"Yes,  what  is  it?"  echoed  Mr.  Welby.  "Not  satis- 
factory, what?  You  appeared  to  be  regularly  dismiss- 
ing him." 

"I  was,"  said  Mrs.  Welby.  "Most  unsatisfactory." 
And,  drawing  her  husband  aside,  she  told  him  that  Sir 
John,  when  she  dropped  her  hints,  had  talked  in  a  lame 
and  shamefaced  way,  declaring  that  although  entirely 
enslaved  by  her  daughter,  his  position  was  so  unfor- 
tunate that  he  could  only  touch  on  his  intentions  in  a 
very  guarded  manner.  And  he  wound  up  by  admitting 
that,  if  he  had  lost  his  heart,  he  could  not  unhappily 
offer  his  hand.  "The  whole  thing  is  most  painful  and 
mysterious,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  "and  I  never  felt  so  in- 
sulted in  my  whole  life.  I  do  believe  he  is  simply  an 
impostor." 

"Where  Zoo-Zoo?"  said  Mr.  Welby,  in  an  awful 
voice. 

The  indispensable  volume,  fetched  from  the  library 
by  Violet,  threw  light  upon  the  mystery.  Sir  John 
was  not  an  impostor.  He  was  really  and  truly  an 
ancient  baronet,  but  he  was  also  a  married  man.  The 
entry  stated  the  fact  explicitly;  "Married,  1896, 
Lady  Adela  Weavill " 

"But  she  may  be  dead,"  said  Primrose  piteously. 
"She  can't  be  alive — or  I'm  sure  he  would  have  men- 
tioned it." 

The  book,  however,  banished  such  hopes.  A  second 
entry  showed  that  Lady  Adela  was  very  much  alive, 
conducting  a  schoo1  of  needlework,  sitting  on  the  Lon- 
don County  Council,  and  enjoying  the  recreations  of 
chess  and  field  botany. 

"That,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  closing  the  book  with  a 


124.  A  LITTLE  MORE 

bang,  "is  what  you  bring  upon  us  by  your  recklessness. 
I  consider,  this  evening,  we've  been  made  so  many  laugh- 
ing-stocks." 

"Oh,  don't  speak  harshly  to  her,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 

Primrose  burst  into  tears,  and  moved  towards  the 
corridor. 

"Poor  old  Prim,"  said  Violet,  going  to  her  sympa- 
thetically. "I  am  sorry  for  your  disappointment. 
Poor  dear  old  Prim." 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter,"  sobbed  Primrose. 

"There's  my  brave  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 

"I — I  hadn't  set  my  heart  on  him,"  and,  supported 
by  her  sister,  Primrose  went  sobbing  down  the  corri- 
dor. 

Violet  ran  back  at  once,  and  said  reassuringly :  "I'll 
get  her  to  bed,  and  she'll  cry  herself  to  sleep.  She'll  be 
all  right  in  an  hour  or  two." 

But  then  Mr.  Welby  bellowed  wrathfully.  He  said 
she  must  not  go  to  bed;  she  must  go  to  the  concert 
with  the  rest  of  them.  He  said  he  would  not  stand 
such  degrading  nonsense,  and  he  put  his  foot  down. 

Half  an  hour  later  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Welby  and  the  two 
Miss  Welbys  were  slowly  ascending  the  crowded  stair- 
case in  Prince's  Gate.  Mr.  Welby  had  his  corns  touched 
twice,  he  trod  on  his  wife's  dress  three  times,  and  he 
was  extremely  red  in  the  face  before  he  reached  the 
landing.  But  he  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  it  was 
all  worth  while — this  well-dressed  and  partially  perspir- 
ing mob,  the  string  band  downstairs,  the  singers  in 
the  concert  room,  the  flowers,  the  lights,  the  heat,  were 
the  things  that  well-to-do  people  like  himself  got  for 
their  money. 


PROSPERITY  125 

Mrs.  Quartz,  a  fat  little  woman  with  a  nut-brown 
wig,  received  them  in  a  friendly  fashion  at  the  head 
of  her  stair-case.  Mr.  Van  Horn,  her  father,  an  old 
bald  tremulous  gentleman  wearing  a  black  skull  cap, 
gave  them  senile  smiles  from  the  gilt  chair  where  he  was 
seated  with  a  cushion  under  his  feet.  Poor  old  Mr. 
Van  Horn's  mind  was  nearly  gone;  but,  as  the  grand- 
father of  the  house,  he  received  all  honour,  and  was 
allowed  to  sit  like  this  at  his  daughter's  grand  recep- 
tions just  to  amuse  him.  He  knew  nobody,  or  could 
remember  nobody;  but  from  time  to  time  he  crowed 
childishly  and  tried  vainly  to  snap  his  fingers.  Then 
Mrs.  Quartz  would  turn,  and,  smiling  at  him  affection- 
ately, beg  him  not  to  make  a  noise.  Behind  Mrs. 
Quartz  stood  her  only  child,  Irene,  a  fine  big  red- 
haired  girl,  with  a  kind  heart  but  a  dreadfully  hot  tem- 
per. Miss  Irene,  counting  the  Welby  group,  saw  that 
one  of  the  family  was  missing  and  immediately  became 
angry.  As  they  moved  on  they  heard  her  being  exces- 
sively rude  to  her  mother. 

That  was  Irene's  way.  At  all  times  undutiful  to 
poor  fat  Mrs.  Quartz,  she  became  wicked  and  inso- 
lent when,  angry. 

The  squash  in  the  concert  room  broke  up  the  family. 
Mr.  Welby  remained  standing,  and  guarded  his  corns 
as  best  he  could  among  the  people  by  the  door;  Mrs. 
Welby  and  Violet  found  lodgment  on  a  sofa  by  the  wall, 
and  Primrose  pounced  upon  a  chair  at  the  end  of  a 
row.  From  this  corner  seat  she  soon  observed  that 
a  fair,  small,  round-faced  young  man  was  taking  notice 
of  her. 

Her  spirits  at  once  rose.  She  had  changed  her  dress, 
having  watered  the  other  one  with  tears,  and  she  began 


126  A  LITTLE  MORE 

to  think  she  must  be  looking  rather  nice  in  it.  Weep- 
ing had  merely  made  her  eyes  brighter,  and  she  now 
flashed  them  in  all  directions ;  she  fidgetted,  made  quick 
movements  of  her  shoulders,  turned  her  little  head  this 
way,  that  way;  but  all  the  while  she  was  acutely  con- 
scious of  the  round-faced  boy.  He  was  laughing  while 
he  talked  to  other  young  men ;  he  never  stopped  laugh- 
ing, and  he  looked  at  her  in  a  gratifying  manner. 
Then  an  Italian  lady  sang  a  song,  and  Primrose  pre- 
tended to  be  enthralled  by  the  beautiful  voice ;  she  was 
rapt,  lost,  seemingly  conscious  of  nothing  but  the  song. 
When  the  song  was  over  she  clapped  her  little  hands  in 
A  frenzy  of  delight;  and  then,  looking  round  rapidly, 
saw  to  her  intolerable  annoyance  that  the  young  man 
was  not  watching  her  any  more.  He  had  disappeared. 

But  he  had  only  gone  to  fetch  Irene  and  get  her  to 
introduce  him.  Irene  came  back  with  him,  and  did  it 
— brusquely  and  sullenly. 

"Mr.  Hugo  Blyth— Miss  Welby." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!"  said  Mr.  Blyth,  laughing  joyously. 
<{Ha !  ha !  ha !  We  have  never  met  before — unless  we 
met  in  a  dream  ages  ago."  And  he  went  on  laughing 
for  everybody  to  hear,  but  said  quite  thrilling  things 
that  only  reached  Primrose's  ear.  "Directly  I  spotted 
you,  I  wanted  to  be  introduced." 

"I  wonder  why  on  earth  such  a  strange  notion  came 
into  your  head,"  said  Primrose.  She  was  laughing 
too.  "Are  you  often  taken  like  that?" 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  What  a  topping  answer!  Come 
down-stairs  and  have  some  supper." 

Down  they  went,  and  Primrose  was  all  gaiety  and 
happiness  again.  It  was  so  jolly  to  have  another 
slave,  and  so  quickly.  The  uncomfortable  memory  of 


PROSPERITY  127 

that  horrid  old  Sir  John  was  laughed  away  completely. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  Let's  sit  in  this  corner — and  eat, 
drink,  and  be  merry,"  said  Mr.  Blyth.  And  so  they 
went  on. 

"Do  you  ever  stop  laughing?"  asked  Primrose. 

"Hardly  ever.  Why  should  I?  What  says  the 
poet?" 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea.     I  never  read  poetry." 

"Ha !  ha !  ha !  'Laugh  and  the  world  laughs  with 
you.  Weep  and  you  weep  alone.'  But  no  one  ever  made 
you  weep.  You  couldn't  do  it  if  you  tried." 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!     What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Because  you're  so  ripping — like  some  jolly  boy» 
More  like  a  boy  than  a  girl." 

"Oh,  thank  you  for  nothing.  If  it  comes  to  that, 
you're  rather  like  a  girl  dressed  up  in  boy's  clothes. 
You're  not  very  big,  you  know.  And  you're  very 
silly,"  and  Primrose  gurgled  with  laughter. 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  What  things  you  say!  You  don't 
mind  what  you  say,  do  you?  Oh,  you  really  are  too 
ripping  for  words.  It  don't  matter  whether  you're  the 
boy  or  I'm  the  girl.  There's  two  of  us,  anyhow — one 
of  each  sort.  That's  why  we  get  on  together  so  rip- 
pingly.  Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

Primrose  loved  the  party  now.  She  was  as  happy 
as  a  bird. 

But  Violet  was  dull  and  miserable  without  her  Adol- 
phus  Faring.  She  had  to  go  down  to  supper  with  her 
father  and  mother,  and  she  felt  it  was  a  cruel  humilia- 
tion. 

Friendly,  hospitable  Mrs.  Quartz  had  forced  her  way 
through  the  crowd  to  find  the  Welbys  and  implore  them 
to  take  refreshment.  She  led  Mrs.  Welby  out  through 


128  A  LITTLE  MORE 

the  crowd  again,  holding  her  arm  and  making  much  of 
her. 

"There  now.  I'll  follow  you  down  later.  I  daren't 
go  down  yet — or  Irene  will  be  at  me,  for  leaving  my 
post."  And  she  added  confidentially :  "I'm  sure  I  hope 
your  daughters  are  a  comfort  to  you,  Mrs.  Welby. 
Mine  isn't  to  me.'' 


CHAPTER  IH 

SLOWLY  but   surely,   while  the  month  of  July 
hurried  hotly  by,  the  whole  family  realized  that 
they  had  not  quite  enough,  and  that  they  wanted 
a  little  more.     As  Primrose  said  desperately  to  Violet: 
"We  just  miss  success,  and  I  don't  see  any  point  in  not 
admitting  the  truth." 

Mr.  Welby  wanted  more  ready  money  to  meet  the 
heavy  claims  of  the  hour.  Bigger  dividends  from  the 
mine  would  pull  him  straight  later  on ;  but  the  tempor- 
ary embarrassments  bothered  him  and  spoilt  his  pleas- 
ure, making  him  feel  too  often  that,  although  rich,  he 
would  have  had  to  be  a  little  richer  to  enjoy  the  proper 
sensation  of  richness." 

Above  all  else  Mr.  Welby  wanted  more  time.  He 
felt  rattled;  the  pressure  of  responsibility  was  always 
upon  him;  the  unknown  trod  on  his  heels,  forcing  him 
to  accelerate  his  pace,  although  he  never  reached  any 
recognizable  destination.  His  long  experience  in  a 
warehouse  was  useless  to  him.  He  knew  nothing  what- 
ever about  financial  business,  and  he  struggled  hard  to 
conceal  his  ignorance,  pretending  to  know  everything, 
promising  himself  to  "learn  it  up."  This  sulphur  min- 
ing company  practically  belonged  to  him,  and  he  did 
not  really  comprehend  why  shareholders  came  into  it 
at  all.  Yet  there  were  shareholders  other  than  himself 
— for  he  and  the  secretary  signed  certificates  concern- 
ing them,  and  balance-sheets  and  other  things  were  be- 
ing prepared  for  them.  At  thoso  offices  in  the  city  he 

129 


130  A  LITTLE  MORE 

was  an  automaton,  or  rather  a  puppet  whose  strings 
were  pulled  by  the  manager.  He  did  whatever  Mr. 
Bernstein  advised  him  to  do. 

"If  I  could  find  the  time,"  he  said  to  Jack,  one  hot 
stuffy  afternoon,  "I'd  go  straight  out  there  and  look 
into  things  myself." 

They  were  in  the  library  at  the  flat.  Mr.  Welby, 
after  broiling  for  two  hours  at  Hurlingham,  had  been 
snatched  away  by  Mrs.  Welby  just  when  he  had  begun 
to  feel  interest  in  a  polo  match,  and  taken  to  a  crowded 
tea-party  in  the  Bayswater  Road.  Before  long  he 
would  have  to  dress,  go  out  to  dinner  at  a  restaurant, 
and  on  to  Covent  Garden  and  the  Russian  ballet.  Dur- 
ing the  brief  respite  he  sat  with  his  waistcoat  open, 
drank  a  little  soda  water  and  a  good  deal  of  old  brandy, 
and  talked  to  Jack,  who  by  a  rare  chance  happened  to 
be  there. 

Jack,  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  made  queer  move- 
ments of  his  body,  stooped  slowly  as  if  looking  for 
some  small  object  on  the  floor,  raised  himself  slowly, 
stooped  again,  and  did  not  listen. 

"I  say,"  repeated  Mr.  Welby,  "I'd  like  to  go  out  to 
Austria  and  see  for  myself." 

"Then  why  don't  you  go?" 

"Can't  get  the  leisure  for  it." 

"Would  it  take  so  long?" 

"My  dear  boy,"  said  Mr.  Welby  fretfully,  "I  can't 
«ven  find  the  time  to  do  my  Swedish  exercises  of  a  morn- 
ing." 

"Then  why  don't  you  do  'em  at  odd  moments,  when 
you're  bored  and  there's  nothing  to  occupy  you? 
That's  what  7  do.  I've  been  doing  mine  now.  That's 
the  tip.  You  want  'em,  you  know." 


PROSPERITY  131 

And  Jack  continued  to  exercise  himself  in  the  latest 
Swedish  fashion,  extending  his  arms  to  their  full  length, 
swinging  his  body  round  with  a  gentle  jerk,  back  again, 
round  again. 

"Stop  it,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "You're  making  me 
giddy.  Jack,  I  do  get  giddy  nowadays.  What's  that 
from?  Gout?  I've  had  some  nasty  twinges  of  gout 
since  this  hot  weather  began,"  and  he  emptied  his 
glass. 

Jack  pointed  at  the  empty  glass,  and  spoke  magis- 
terially. "You  know,  that  stuff  isn't  going  to  help 
you  with  the  gout." 

"Think  not?"  And  Mr.  Welby,  about  to  refill  his 
glass,  hesitated  and  became  slightly  redder  in  the  face. 
"Maybe  you're  right,  my  boy — best  to  keep  it  for  after 
dinner,  eh?  Mother  has  the  idea  to  take  us  to  Hom- 
burg  in  August,  so  as  I  can  do  a  cure.  Well,  Horn- 
burg's  in  Germany,  and  Austria's  next  door  to  Ger- 
many, I  might  run  on  and  inspect  the  properties.  You 
heard  we're  putting  up  new  smelting  furnaces?" 

"No.     Nobody  ever  tells  me  anything." 

"Only  because  you  won't  attend  to  anything.  You 
aren't  really  attending  to  me  now.  Yes,  we're  going 
to  increase  output  by  the  most  up-to-date  process 
available.  I'm  guaranteeing  the  cost  as  against  the 
future  yield." 

"Who  advised  you  to  do  that?" 

"Mr.  Bernstein." 

"Oh,  then  I  suppose  it's  all  right.  You  can  trust 
Bernstein?" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  trust  him  any  further  than  I 
can  see  him.  Of  course  I  have  Rolls  to  look  after  him." 

"And  who  looks  after  Rolls?" 


132  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"I  do,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  dignity. 
But  then  he  grew  still  redder  and  a  flustered  look  came 
into  his  broad  face.  "Yes,  certainly,  I  control  the 
whole  thing." 

"Good.  Ta-ta,  guv.,"  and  Jack  left  him  alone  with 
the  brandy  and  his  thoughts. 

Mr.  Welby  had  been  acting  sagacity  and  technical 
knowledge  to  avoid  letting  himself  down  in  the  eyes 
of  Jack ;  but  behind  his  subterfuges  there  was  a  dogged 
desire  to  rise  to  the  height  of  the  situation.  Fate  had 
called  him  to  perform  weighty  intricate  tasks  and  he 
intended  eventually  to  answer  the  call.  It  was  not 
like  him  to  shirk:  he  would  be  a  real  man  and  not  a 
dummy. 

"If  only,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  "if  only  there 
were  twenty-five  hours  in  the  day  instead  of  twenty- 
four." 

Then  he  looked  at  his  writing-table,  with  its  accumu- 
lated evidence  of  postponement  and  neglect.  The  confu- 
sion and  litter  of  the  desk  seemed  to  pass  into  his  mind, 
making  the  same  muddle  on  both  sides  of  the  room. 
He  felt  again  that  queer  pressure,  as  of  being  pushed 
forward,  over-driven,  cruelly  goaded.  Then  he  took 
a  little  more  brandy.  It  was  the  sensation  of  pressure 
that  made  him  drink  brandy;  and,  as  he  knew,  it  was 
drinking  brandy  that  gave  him  bilious  headaches. 

"Father,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  looking  in  at  the  door, 
"you'll  be  late  if  you  don't  go  and  dress.  Timesman 
has  put  everything  out  for  you." 

"Coming,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  hastily  swig- 
ging off  his  nip. 

Violet  and  Primrose  both  understood  that  they  could 
not  afford  to  dress  as  they  ought.  They  struggled 


PROSPERITY  133 

hard  to  make  a  striking  effect,  but  they  were  not  able  to 
put  themselves  in  the  hands  of  a  really  great  artist  who 
would  do  them  justice.  Comparatively,  a  little 
more  money  would  have  been  sufficient.  They  were 
spoiling  the  ship  for  a  ha'porth  more  tar. 

Socially,  too,  everything  would  have  been  so  much 
easier  if  they  could  have  done  things  on  a  slightly  bet- 
ter scale.  Instead  of  living  at  Knightsbridge,  they 
ought  to  have  been  living  in  Mayfair.  They  ought  to 
have  done  their  shopping  in  Bond  Street  instead  of 
Sloane  Street.  They  ought  to  have  had  their  smart 
friends  all  round  them,  instead  of  being  obliged  to  go 
and  hunt  for  them. 

In  regard  to  their  admirers,  neither  of  them  was 
really  contented.  Perhaps  they  might  not  have  fretted 
about  husbands  at  all,  if  each  of  them  had  not  been 
anxious  to  get  married  before  the  other.  Violet  especi- 
ally felt  that  it  would  make  her  feel  "too  small  for 
words"  if  Primrose  went  off  before  her;  and  she  hoped 
that  Jack  would  make  a  rich  marriage,  not  because  she 
thought  he  deserved  such  luck,  but  because  she  wanted 
him  handsomely  provided  for,  so  that  Mr.  Welby  might 
be  free  to  concentrate  all  his  liberality  on  her  own  mar- 
riage portion. 

But  Dolly  Faring  was  altogether  too  tame  a  lover. 
Although  incessantly  afraid  of  losing  him,  Violet  did 
now  honestly  feel  that  she  was  merely  putting  up  with 
him.  Instead  of  carrying  her  off  her  feet  by  his  ardour 
and  passion,  he  paid  her  compliments  that  wounded  her 
vanity — saying,  for  instance,  that  he  was  sure  she  had 
the  maternal  instinct  highly  developed,  that  he  felt  safe 
with  her,  and  knew  she  would  take  good  care  of  him. 
He  spoke  also,  very  selfishly,  of  his  wish  to  live  quietly 


134.  A  LITTLE  MORE 

in  the  country  and  go  in  for  poultry  farming.  He 
thought  too  much  of  himself  and  not  enough  of  her. 
He  had  had  his  fling,  whereas  she  had  not.  She  had 
an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  if  they  ever  went  to  the 
altar  together,  it  would  be  a  marriage  of  convenience, 
quite  devoid  of  romance  and  glamour.  And  in  her 
secret  heart  Violet  wanted  something  more  out  of  life 
than  that. 

Primrose's  feelings  with  regard  to  Mr.  Hugo  Blyth 
were  essentially  similar  in  character.  This  curious  and 
rapidly-formed  friendship  continued.  Although  an  en- 
gagement had  not  been  announced,  he  was  admitted  to 
the  family  as  Primrose's  acknowledged  suitor;  he  pos- 
sessed no  entry  in  "Who's  Who,"  but  he  had  been 
vouched  for  by  City  experts,  as  belonging  remotely  to 
Blyth's  Patent  Food  for  Cattle,  and  having  solid  money 
behind  him;  he  had  offended  and  then  enthralled  the 
heads  of  the  family  by  his  f acetiousness ;  he  called  them 
"Pa  and  Ma  Welby,"  and  declared  that  Mr.  Welby 
was  nothing  but  a  great  Tom-boy  at  heart.  That 
mysteriously  pleased  Mr.  Welby. 

He  never  ceased  laughing,  and  Primrose  laughed 
inordinately  when  in  his  company.  Laughter  had 
taken  possession  of  her — it  prevented  her  from  worry- 
ing about  the  joys  that  she  knew  she  was  missing. 
Considered  as  a  lover,  Hugo  was  beneath  contempt; 
not  tall  enough,  not  broad  enough,  not  substantial 
enough — a  whipper-snapper,  a  mannikin,  a  laughing 
doll — only  worth  playing  with ;  not  himself  wanting  to 
be  treated  seriously.  So  Primrose  laughed,  and  stifled 
thought.  If  she  dreamed  of  what  might  have  been,  had 
Fate  proved  a  little  more  generous,  it  was  of  a  sort  of 
companion  that  perhaps  is  only  met  with  in  dreams. 


PROSPERITY  135 

She  imagined  some  splendid  strong  taciturn  man  who 
would  say,  "Stop  laughing,  Primrose,  and  come  with  me 
across  the  world  to  make  a  garden  of  love  thousands 
and  thousands  of  miles  away  from  everybody  else."  He 
would,  if  necessary,  take  her  and  shake  her,  or  smack 
her,  until  she  came  to  herself.  Or,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  might  be  simply  the  fairy  prince,  who  would  say, 
"Primrose,  you  are  unique.  I  have  sought  for  you 
through  the  maze  of  life  and  the  mists  of  time.  Come 
and  share  my  throne."  Vagueness.  Nonsense.  Things 
not  worth  thinking  of — not  worth  dreaming  of. 

"Ha !  ha  !  ha !  Ha !  ha !  ha !"  She  and  Hugo  went 
about  together  like  two  mischievous  urchins,  in  search 
of  thrills.  He  took  her  to  a  prize  fight — up  in  an 
aeroplane — to  a  costermongers'  dancing  club  at  Bethnal 
Green;  and  these  things,  innocent  and  natural  as  they 
sound  nowadays,  being  still  rather  unusual  and  reck- 
less in  the  year  1914,  people  were  startled.  They  pre- 
tended also  that  they  had  spent  an  evening  at  an  opium 
den  in  Limehouse.  But  that  was  not  true.  They  had 
really  been  sitting  most  respectably  at  the  big  music- 
hall  in  the  Whitechapel  Road.  They  liked  to  make 
people  stare  and  talk;  but  Mrs.  Welby  kept  from  Mr. 
Welby  all  the  chatter  about  their  escapades. 

As  to  Mrs.  Welby,  she,  like  the  rest,  wanted  more 
money,  and  had  better  reason  than  they  for  wanting 
it;  since  Jack  was  always  secretly  draining  her  re- 
sources. The  secrets  of  Jack  worried  her  fearfully; 
concerning  him  there  were  so  many  things  that  had  to 
be  kept  from  Mr.  Welby — the  fact  of  his  renting  ex- 
pensive rooms  of  his  own  in  a  side  street  off  Piccadilly, 
his  carrying  on  with  doubtful  costly  ladies  of  the 
theatre,  his  recent  entanglement  with  a  married  woman, 


136  A  LITTLE  MORE 

his  shameful  treatment  of  affectionate  Irene  Quartz,  his 
callous  refusal  to  promise  that  everything  was  over  and 
done  with  about  Amabel  Price,  his  racing,  his  card- 
playing,  his  Stock  Exchange.  Jack  and  his  affairs 
formed  the  larger  burden  on  her  spirits ;  the  lesser  one 
was  the  fact,  long  ago  detected  by  Timesman,  that  Mr. 
Welby  drank  too  much.  There  were  July  nights  on 
which  he  came  to  her  room  completely  fuddled.  He 
succeeded,  in  getting  home  without  disgrace;  but  then, 
feeling  safe  in  harbour,  his  will  power  relaxed  or  the 
fumes  of  intoxication  increased,  and  he  showed  himself 
to  his  wife  in  a  regrettable  state.  Thus  Mrs.  Welby's 
trouble  might  be  summed  up:  She  wanted  more  peace 
of  mind. 

Well  on  in  the  month  Mr.  Welby,  for  the  first  time, 
presided  at  the  annual  general  meeting  of  his  company. 
He  looked  very  large  and  grand  on  this  occasion  in  a 
new  frock  coat  and  white  waistcoat,  with  one  of  the 
bright  purple  neckties  that  Mrs.  Welby  made  him  wear 
as  best  suited  his  complexion;  and,  carefully  prepared 
and  prompted  by  Bernstein,  and  encouraged  by  defer- 
ential dummy  directors  on  each  side  of  him,  he  played 
his  part  excellently. 

There  were  not  more  than  twenty  people  in  the  room. 
A  vote  of  thanks  to  the  chairman  for  his  generous 
treatment  of  the  company  in  the  matter  of  the  smelting 
furnaces  was  carried  unanimously.  Mr.  Welby  ac- 
knowledged the  compliment  in  suitable  terms,  and  sug- 
gested that,  their  interests  in  Austria  being  so  large 
and  their  relations  with  the  government  of  the  empire 
so  cordial,  it  would  be  a  graceful  act  to  send  a  message 


PROSPERITY  137 

of  condolence  and  sympathy.     They  should  not,  he  felt, 
ignore  the  calamitous  murder  of  the  archduke. 

Then  one  of  the  shareholders  asked  Mr.  Welby  if 
there  was  any  danger  of  this  crime  leading  to  a  war. 

Mr.  Welby  replied  in  the  negative.  No,  he  said,  they 
might  take  it  from  him  that  there  would  not  be  any  war. 

He  said  the  same  thing  again  that  evening.  It  was  at 
a  public  dinner  in  aid  of  the  funds  of  a  well-known 
hospital,  and  Mr.  Welby,  by  reason  of  his  lavish  dona- 
tion, was  treated  with  honour,  given  a  seat  at  the  high 
table  quite  near  the  nobleman  who  occupied  the  chair, 
and  called  upon  for  a  speech  after  dinner.  "In  our 
institution,"  said  his  lordship,  reading  a  pencil  note  with 
difficulty,  "the  name  of  Mr.  Welby — I  should  say  Mr. 
Welby — is  known  and  beloved  by  all ;  in  the  wider  sphere 
of — ah,  finance,  and  those  commercial  adventures  that 
have  made  our  country  what  it  is,  Mr. — ah,  our  good 
friend — is  equally  respected.  If  he  can,  from  infor- 
mation naturally  accessible  to  him  but  not  available  to 
us  ordinary  citizens — if,  I  say,  without  breach  of  con- 
fidence, Mr.  Whibble  can  give  us  any  light  on  the  some- 
what gloomy  political  situation  of  Europe — I  am  sure 
I  am  speaking  for  everyone  here  in  this  room,  when  I 
say  we  shall  be  obliged  to  him." 

Then,  stimulated  and  encouraged  in  so  gratifying  a 
manner,  Mr.  Welby  made  the  oration  of  his  life. 

There  would  be  no  war.  He  did  not  profess  to  give 
them  any  inside  view  of  the  existing  crisis;  no,  he  left 
that  to  those  directly  responsible  for  the  conduct  of 
affairs ;  he  looked  at  the  whole  matter  from  the  common- 
sense  standard,  and,  if  he  might  add  without  arro- 
gance, from  the  philosophical  standard  too. 


138  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"What  is  philosophy,"  asked  Mr  Welby,  beaming 
grandly,  "if  it  is  not  common  sense  in  the  highest  form  ? 
And  are  we  to  suppose  that  men  oo've  risen  to  the  top 
of  the  tree  as  prime  ministers  and  foreign  secretaries 
and  such-like  are  going  to  act  so  barren  of  philosophy, 
so  blind  to  common  sense — are  they  going  to  act,  with 
the  nations  behind  them,  if  I  may  say  so,  no  wiser  than 
a  pack  of  fools?  No,  certainly  not.  Gentlemen,  I  do 
not  deny  that  there  is  danger  in  this  continuous  'arp- 
ing  on  the  war  string — of  which  we  have  had  far  too 
much,  both  in  the  Press — and  in  other  places.  Maybe, 
a  few  'ot  'eads  here  and  there  will  be  inflamed  to  a  pitch 
of  readiness  to  carry  us  over  the  brink.  But  they 
cannot  do  it,"  and  he  opened  his  arms  widely,  and 
spoke  with  even  greater  impressiveness.  "We  shall 
not  allow  them  to  do  it.  The  common  sense  of  the 
universe  will  pull  them  up  short  and  sharp.  Gentle- 
men, you  can  sum  it  up  in  a  nut-shell.  War  is  not  a 
thing  for  to  be  entered  into  lightly.  And  those  who 
rule  the  destinies  of  ours  and  other  countries  will  ask 
themselves  the  very  simple  question:  What  have  wo 
to  gain  by  war,  what  have  we  to  lose  by  war  ?  And  the 
common-sense  answer  is  of  such  a  character,  that — that 
— well,  my  lord  and  gentlemen,  I  have  no  'esitation  in 
repeating  what  I  have  stated  before  at  the  opening  of 
these  few  remarks.  You  may  take  it  from  me —  There 
will  be  no  war."  And,  as  the  newspapers  reported 
next  day,  Mr.  Welby  sat  down  amid  loud  and  prolonged 
cheering. 

The  excitement  of  this  speech  and  the  effort  it  had 
required  were  very  great;  after  it  he  gulped  down  the 
champagne,  and  sat  throbbing  and  glowing;  he  felt 
proud,  elated,  and  was  only  troubled  with  the  thought 


PROSPERITY  139 

that  he  should  perhaps  have  spoken  a  little  louder  and 
gone  on  a  little  longer.  When  he  left  the  big  room  he 
drifted  in  company  with  affable  strangers  to  a  bar 
downstairs,  and  stood  there  drinking. 

That  night  he  came  home  palpably  drunk.  There 
was  no  other  word  for  it,  and  Timesman  used  the  word 
freely.  Timesman  took  off  his  clothes  for  him  and  ad- 
vised him  to  sleep  in  the  dressing-room. 

Very  early,  before  the  servants  were  up  and  about, 
Mrs.  Welby  came  to  the  dressing-room,  and  a  pitiful 
little  scene  occurred  between  husband  and  wife.  She 
said  it  was  the  first  time  since  the  infancy  of  Primrose 
that  they  had  passed  a  night  in  different  rooms.  She 
implored  him  not  to  drink,  and  she  reminded  him  of  a 
conversation  at  dinner  ages  ago — one  evening  before 
their  money  came  to  them,  when  Mr.  Carillon  had 
spoken  of  the  moral  deterioration  shown  by  rich  people. 
She  said  she  had  been  thinking  of  this  talk  all  through 
the  night,  and  it  had  made  her  utterly  miserable.  She 
declared,  in  conclusion,  that  she  would  rather  be  poor 
again  than  see  Mr.  Welby  go  downhill. 

Mr.  Welby,  contrite,  made  promises. 

"It's  all  right,  old  girl.  I  have  been  dropping  into 
bad  ways.  All  I  want  is  more  open  air,  more  exercise, 
more  sleep.  I'll  have  that  on  our  holidays." 


CHAPTER  IV 

ON  one  of  these  warm  bright  afternoons  Jack 
and  his  friend  Adolphus  Faring  had  an  ethical 
discussion.     They   were   seated    at   the    open 
window  of  a  room  on  the  first  floor  of  a  club  in  Pic- 
cadilly; beneath  them,  but  unseen,  the  traffic  rolled  by 
ceaselessly — like  life  itself,  which  goes  on  at  just  the 
same  pace  whether  you  watch  it  or  whether  you  turn 
your  eyes  away  from  it. 

Jack  looked  out  of  the  window,  frowning  gloomily. 
This,  as  he  knew,  was  a  second-class  club,  the  sort  of 
institution  to  which  one  is  elected  without  delay;  but 
he  did  not  worry  about  that  for  the  moment.  His  name 
was  on  the  candidates'  list  of  a  better  club. 

"At  the  end  of  your  tether?"  said  Dolly,  echoing  his 
last  words.  "But  isn't  that  a  reason  for  launching  out 
rather  than  pulling  in?  Not  perhaps  at  Chouette's, 
but  somewhere  else. 

'He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  will  not  put  it  to  the  touch 
To  win  or  lose  it  all.' 

That's  as  true  of  cards  as  of  love." 

They  had  been  talking  of  a  polite  gambling  hell  that 
Tjoth  frequented,  and  of  their  suspicions  that  some  of 
the  gentlemen  they  met  there  were  professional  cheats. 
Then  this  eloquent  speech  of  Dolly's  lifted  the  conver- 
sation to  an  unusually  high  plane. 

140 


PROSPERITY  141 

"Dolly,"  said  Jack,  "do  you  think  it's  wrong  for  a 
fellow  to  marry  a  girl  with  money?" 

"Of  course  I  don't.     I'm  trying  to  do  it  myself." 

"But  if  he  wants  the  money  almost  more  than  the 
girl?" 

"Hold  hard  a  moment,  Jack.  Are  you  thinking 
about  yourself  or  me?" 

"About  myself.     I  want  your  candid  advice." 

"And  you  shall  have  it,  Jack.  But  now,  of  course, 
you  have  set  me  thinking  about  myself — and  that 
clouds  my  judgment  about  anything  else.  Shall  we 
talk  about  me  first,  and  then  go  on  with  you?" 

"All  right.  But  I  must  say  you  always  are  damned 
selfish,  Dolly." 

"Not  in  the  least,"  said  Dolly;  and  he  continued, 
without  facial  expression  but  in  quite  an  animated  man- 
ner: "To  begin  with,  you  have  no  objection  to  me 
as  a  brother-in-law,  have  you?" 

"No.     I'm  very  fond  of  you,  Dolly." 

"Thanks.  The  feelin's  mutual.  Now  before  I  go 
away  to  my  brother's  for  Goodwood,  I  want  to  get 
this  thing  of  Violet  and  me  settled." 

"One  way  or  the  other?" 

"No,  one  way,  Jack — not  the  other.  I  want  to  be 
married  by  November." 

"But  you  don't  really  care  for  Violet,  do  you?"  said 
Jack,  looking  at  him  with  a  certain  wonder. 

"I  do,  Jack.  And,  what's  more,  we  should  get  on 
very  well  together." 

"You  know,  there  are  things  I  could  tell  you  about 
Violet.  She's  not " 

"No,  please,"  said  Dolly  impassively,  yet  assuming 
considerable  dignity.  "Violet  will  take  me  with  her 


142  A  LITTLE  MORE 

eyes  open,  and  I  want  to  take  her  with  my  eyes  closed. 
You  know  what  I  mean.  Let  bygones  be  bygones,  on 
both  sides.  It  is  my  intention  to  treat  your  sister  un- 
commonly well — and,  as  I  say — we  shall  do  all  right. 
She  likes  me  in  a  nice  motherly  way — and  I  feel  the 
greatest  respect  for  her.  I  have  no  doubt  in  the  mat- 
ter, Jack.  That  is,  I  have  only  one  doubt." 

"What's  that?" 

"Your  father!  Is  your  father  really  prepared  to 
fix  up  Violet  as  she  expects?" 

Jack  looked  round  the  room  and  drew  his  chair 
closer  to  Dollyrs. 

"It's  difficult  to  answer,"  he  said  confidentially. 
"The  governor's  so  dam'  close  about  his  affairs.  Any- 
how, it  won't  be  my  fault  if  he  doesn't  do  Violet  really 
proud.  I've  done  nothing  to  come  between  my  sis- 
ters and  their  expectations." 

"That's  most  awfully  good  of  you,  Jack,"  said  Dolly, 
with  genuine  feeling. 

"No — but  there  it  is.  If  I  had  bitten  the  guv'nor's 
ear  to  anything  but  a  laughably  trifling  extent,  I 
should  never  have  got  into  the  infernal  mess  that  I  am 
in." 

"Devilish  hard  luck  on  you." 

"Don't  think  I'm  running  the  old  fellow  down.  No, 
he's  just  a  trump  at  heart,  but  he  came  into  the  splosh 
too  late  in  life.  He  simply  can't  bang  it  about.  Part- 
ing hurts  him.  I  can  tell  you  I  feel  more  and  more 
humiliated  every  time  I  touch  him  for  a  bit  of  ready. 
He  makes  one  feel  as  if  one  was  simply  sponging  on 
him,  and  I  don't  mind  owning  I'm  fairly  fed  up  with 
it." 


PROSPERITY  143 

"But  there  is  plenty,  isn't  there?" 

"Of  course  there  is.  And  when  it  comes  to  putting 
it  down  for  the  girls,  I  should  say,  on  the  whole,  he'll 
part  better  in  bulk  than  in  driblets.  My  tip  to  you 
and  Violet  would  be,  do  it  all  through  the  lawyers. 
Don't  ask  him  direct.  Let  the  solicitors  put  it  up  to 
him — give  him  a  figure  that  they  consider  proper  for 
a  man  in  his  position.  Best  of  luck,  anyhow." 

"Thanks.  Much  obliged,  Jack."  And  Mr.  Faring 
rose  from  his  deep  chair  and  stretched  himself.  "Oh, 
by  the  way,  you  were  going  to  ask  me  something." 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  said  Jack,  becoming  gloomy 
again;  and,  rising  too,  he  looked  out  of  the  window, 

"No,  but  command  me.  My  mind  is  now  entirely 
free." 

"Suppose  a  case,"  said  Jack.  "A  fellow  has  en- 
tangled himself  with  a  girl;  he  is  really  fond  of  her; 
but  he's  so  dashed  hard  up  that  he  can't  see  daylight 
ahead  if  he  sticks  to  her." 

"As  I  have  indicated,"  said  Dolly,  very  dignified  and 
solemn,  "I  don't  believe  in  love  and  passion  and  all 
that ;  but  I  do  believe  in  treating  people  fairly."  Then 
without  a  movement  of  his  smooth  mask  he  made  the 
sound  of  gentle  laughter.  "If  your  friend  hasn't  the 
means  to  marry  the  girl,  he'd  be  acting  very  badly 
if  he  did  it." 

"You  think  he  would?" 

"I  should  call  it  selfishness  of  the  worst  sort.  Just 
to  gratify  his  fancy,  he  risks  the  happiness  of  two 
people." 

"Suppose  the  case  is  further  complicated.  Sup- 
pose the  fellow  sees  a  chance  of  pulling  himself  straight 


A  LITTLE  MORE 

by    marrying    another    girl — a    girl    with    money?" 

"I  don't  see  how  he  can  hesitate,"  and  Faring  again 
gave  his  phantom  laugh. 

"Dash  you,  I'm  in  deadly  earnest,"  said  Jack,  turn- 
ing from  the  window  fiercely.  "Stop  that  cackling. 
Dolly,  look  here— no  rot.  You  consider  yourself  a 
gentleman,  a  man  of  honour." 

"Now  you're  overwhelming  me." 

"At  any  rate,  you  pride  yourself  on  never  having 
done  a  dirty  trick." 

"Jack,  I  admire  your  delicacy  very  much.  And,  of 
course,  I  haven't  a  notion  as  to  who  is  the  young  lady 
you  intend  to  throw  over;  but,  as  between  pals,  is  there 
any  reason  why  you  shouldn't  speak  openly  of  your 
intentions  concerning  Irene  Quartz?  It  is  Irene,  of 
course?" 

Jack  owned  that  this  guess  had  hit  the  target;  and 
Dolly,  as  one  who  hoped  to  be  a  brother-in-law, 
strongly  urged  him  to  snap  up  Irene  without  further 
shilly-shally.  He  said  that  he  was  in  a  position  to 
give  the  All-right  signal  with  regard  to  Irene.  Irene 
was  rumbo.  Irene  had  the  goods. 

"How  are  you  so  sure  about  it?" 

Dolly  explained  that  a  man  he  knew  had  proposed 
to  Irene  last  year,  and  being  a  careful  sensible  sort 
of  fellow,  he  had  investigated  everything  beforehand. 
There  was  a  will  at  Somerset  House  which  Jack  could 
see  for  himself  by  paying  a  shilling.  Irene  would  come 
into  possession  of  her  money,  anyhow,  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five,  and  at  once  if  she  married  with  the  consent 
of  her  guardians.  Later  on  there  ought  to  be  a  lot 
more  from  the  cracked  grandfather  through  the  mother. 
Dolly  said  his  friend  had  decided  that  the  best  tip 


PROSPERITY  145 

would  be  to  do  a  bolt  with  Irene.  Marry  her  first 
and  worry  it  out  afterwards.  He  added  that  all 
his  friend's  labour  had  been  wasted  because  Irene  re- 
fused. "Irene  wasn't  taking  any." 

"I  suppose  you  mean  it  was  yourself,"  said  Jack 
gloomily. 

"Well,  since  absolute  candour  is  to  be  the  order  of 
the  day,  it  was,"  said  Dolly.  "There's  nothing  dis- 
loyal to  Violet  in  that,"  he  added.  "It  was  before  I'd 
ever  seen  your  sister." 

Then  he  asked  Jack  to  join  him  for  another  flutter  at 
cards  that  evening. 

"Sorry,"  said  Jack,  "I'm  engaged." 

"Can't  you  chuck  the  engagement?" 

"No,  I  can't  do  that,"  said  Jack  firmly. 

Then  Dolly  departed  from  the  club. 

Jack  presently  walking  westward  with  the  afternoon 
sunlight  full  upon  him  looked  quite  splendid.  His  top 
hat  shone,  his  patent  leather  boots  flashed,  his  face 
was  refulgent;  he  had  a  sort  of  defiant  blackguardly 
comeliness  about  him  that  made  women  glance  at  him 
swiftly  as  he  passed  by.  He  swaggered,  pushed  his 
hat  back,  as  if  determined  to  outstare  the  sunbeams. 
But  inwardly  he  was  miserable.  He  felt,  as  he  had 
said,  at  the  end  of  his  tether;  he  had  been  going  the 
pace  too  fast  in  too  many  directions,  and  he  blamed 
the  universe  as  well  as  himself  for  all  his  difficulties. 

He  wanted  more  money — that  went  without  saying. 
He  wanted  considerably  more.  As  he  swaggered  along 
by  Hyde  Park  Corner,  through  the  park,  and  past  the 
barracks,  each  thing  that  he  saw  suggested  a  further 
want.  He  wanted  to  be  an  officer  in  the  Household 
Cavalry;  to  have  been  born  a  duke;  to  own  one  of 


146  A  LITTLE  MORE 

those  houses  as  big  as  palaces,  to  bring  home  the  girl 
who  loved  him,  and  instal  her  there.  He  wanted  every- 
thing1— to  belong  to  the  ruling  classes  instead  of  merely 
the  moneyed  classes,  to  have  power,  to  have  fame  too, 
to  be  illustrious,  so  that  people  would  not  only  turn 
and  look  after  him  and  cheer  him  in  this  crowded 
London,  but  almost  in  any  capital  of  Europe  where 
he  might  chance  to  show  himself.  Every  moment  his 
wants  seemed  to  grow  vaster  and  more  impossible  to 
satisfy. 

Then,  close  to  the  Prince  of  Wales  Gate,  he  stopped 
and  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  as  if  for  a  moment 
taken  with  giddiness.  He  had  a  queer  sensation  of 
having  thought  all  this  before.  Surely,  once  before, 
a  long  time  ago  probably,  he  had  these  very  same 
thoughts  of  limitless  requirement  and  insatiable  crav- 
ing? Or  was  it  somebody  else  to  whom  he  had  heard 
such  thoughts  attributed? 

Suddenly  he  remembered.  It  was  the  old  man —  the 
things  said  by  the  old  man  when  he  sat  huddled  in  his 
chair,  staring  at  the  limitless  view  from  the  landing 
window. 

Jack  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  on  walking. 

That  was  all  nonsense  about  his  preposterous  ex- 
aggerated desires ;  but  more  he  must  have,  or  he  simply 
could  not  go  on.  He  thought  now,  definitely,  of  the 
only  chance  that  seemed  to  offer  for  getting  the  little 
more  that  was  vital  to  his  security.  Irene  Quartz. 
If  he  married  that  half  million,  the  road  would  be 
open  before  him ;  he  would  no  longer  be  obliged  to  live 
from  hand  to  mouth,  he  could  go  into  Parliament, 
establish  himself,  and  no  doubt  earn  money  for  him- 


PROSPERITY  147 

self  after  the  starting  impetus  given  by  his  wife's 
money. 

Mrs.  and  Miss  Quartz  were  both  at  home.  The 
servants  at  the  big  corner  house  in  Prince's  gate  threw 
back  the  doors  with  glad  though  silent  welcome.  It 
was  as  if  the  house  itself  as  well  as  the  young  lady 
upstairs  was  anxiously  expecting  him. 

"At  last!"  said  tall  red-haired  Irene,  smiling  at  him. 
"We  thought  we  were  never  going  to  see  you  again." 

"Yes,  so  we  did,"  said  fat  Mrs.  Quartz,  pulling 
herself  up  from  a  sofa. 

Irene  soon  said  something  curt  and  rude  to  the  old 
lady,  who  then  retired  and  left  them  alone. 

Yes,  there  was  solid  money  here.  Jack,  glancing 
round,  felt  the  wealth  under  his  feet,  over  has  head,  on 
all  sides  of  him.  And  the  girl  was  not  bad  either — a 
big  fine  creature,  with  that  hair  of  hers;  a  firm  neck, 
a  white  skin,  passionate  eyes,  and  a  mouth  that  seemed 
longing  to  utter  pretty  words  now  instead  of  rude 
ones.  Only  Jack  did  not  really  care  for  her. 

Why  should  she  on  her  side  care  for  Jack?  Why 
was  she  so  desperately  in  love  with  him?  Principally 
no  doubt  because  of  his  carelessness,  his  overbearing 
manner,  his  tacit  refusal  to  woo  her;  he  seemed  to  her 
different  from  everybody  else;  she  was  charmed  while 
being  tortured  by  his  seeming  always  to  put  her  off, 
just  at  the  very  moment  when  she  hoped  he  was  begin- 
ning to  run  after  her.  She  felt,  above  all,  an  absolute 
conviction  that,  unlike  the  other  young  men  she  had 
known,  he  thought,  whether  well  or  ill,  of  her  herself, 
and  that  never  once  had  he  given  even  a  passing 
thought  to  her  money. 


148  A  LITTLE  MORE 

She  took  him  to  the  sofa  that  still  bore  the  print  of 
her  mother's  weight  on  it,  and  there  they  sat  side  by 
side.  He  condescended  carelessly  to  take  one  of  her 
hands  and  hold  it;  and  under  this  contact  she  thrilled 
delightedily,  and  her  eyes  became  all  soft  and  dreamy. 
She  pleaded  that  he  would  spend  the  evening  with  her. 

"Sorry — engaged." 

"Can't  you  get  out  of  your  engagement?" 

"No— afraid  not." 

But  Irene  continued  to  plead,  getting  a  little  angry, 
saying  finally  that  he  must  stay  with  her,  and  that  if 
he  refused  she  would  know  that  he  did  not  care  for  her 
the  least  little  bit. 

And  at  last  Jack  consented.  He  said  he  would  stay, 
if  he  might  write  a  note  and  send  it  off  by  a  district 
messenger.  Irene,  enraptured  by  this  triumph,  took 
him  to  her  own  lovely  writing-table  and  brought  out 
her  favourite  ornamental  pen. 

In  fact,  Jack  had  promised,  to  spend  the  evening 
with  Amabel  Price.  He  sat  staring  at  the  glazed 
creamy  paper,  with  the  grand  embossed  address — 200, 
Prince's  Gate,  S.  W.,  Telephone,  Kensington  789624; 
then  he  dashed  off  three  hurried  lines  of  excuse,  and 
fastened  the  envelope. 

"Now,  may  I  go  ctown  and  send  it  off?" 

"I  have  rung,"  said  Irene.  "Don't  you  trouble. 
They'll  attend  to  it  all  right." 

"No,  I'll  do  it  myself,"  said  Jack. 

And  he  went  downstairs,  and  waited  in  the  hall  until 
the  messenger  boy  arrived.  The  note  safely  dispatched, 
he  came  slowly  upstairs  to  rejoin  Irene. 

He  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders,  looked  at  her, 


PROSPERITY  149 

and  said :  "Now,  young  woman,  I've  let  you  have  your 
own  way  for  once." 

Irene  put  her  hands  behind  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

Amabel,  in  a  mean  little  room  in  a  horrid  side  street 
dear  Chelsea  parish  church,  received  the  note  while  she 
was  dressing  for  the  so-long-promised  and  so-long- 
postponed  happy  evening  with  the  man  she  loved.  She 
read  the  note  and  began  to  cry. 


CHAPTER  V 

AMABEL  had  been  very  unhappy  throughout 
this  time. 
She  loved  Jack  as  much  as  ever,  and  always 
she  was  desperately  trying  to  believe  that  he  remained 
faithful  to  her.  His  careless  neglect  was  not  real 
selfishness,  he  was  only  passing  through  a  phase;  all 
this  wild  conduct  was  no  worse  than  that  of  other  rich 
young  men.  Some  day  soon  he  would  grow  tired  of 
frivolity  and  be  to  her  again  what  he  used  to  be.  Then 
she  would  forgive  him  all  the  pain  that  he  had  caused 
her.  Yes,  as  long  as  his  love  remained  unshaken,  she 
could  pardon  everything  else. 

But  more  and  more  frequently  now  came  the  dreadful 
hours  when  she  doubted  his  good  faith. 

The  money  that  should  have  brought  them  together 
had  kept  them  apart.  Jack  had  become  rich  and 
Amabel  was  still  poor ;  they  were  now  in  quite  different 
worlds,  and  when  Jack  gave  her  a  few  glimpses  of  his 
new  life  by  taking  her  to  crowded  suburban  race- 
courses, or  leaving  her  in  verandahs  of  club-houses 
while  he  played  rounds  of  golf  for  absurd  wagers  with 
players  as  unskilful  as  himself,  she  felt  at  once  the 
insuperable  difficulty  about  costume.  She  was  ashamed 
of  her  humble  frocks,  her  cheap  hats,  her  too  often 
washed  gloves ;  and,  what  was  worse,  Jack  did  not 
conceal  the  fact  that  he  was  ashamed  of  them  too. 

Jack,  spending  his  father's  money  like  water,  was 
angry  because  she  would  not  let  him  give  her  some 

150 


PROSPERITY  151 

of  it.  Such  a  trifling  amount  could  have  sufficed  to 
fit  her  out  and  make  her  comfortable.  She  had  to  tell 
him  very  plainly  that  a  girl  of  her  sort  can  accept 
household  expenses  and  pin  money  from  only  one  man — 
her  husband. 

He  explained  to  her  that  for  a  dozen  different 
reasons  it  was  impossible  to  hurry  on  their  marriage. 
It  would  be  fatal  to  marry  without  his  father's  consent, 
he  must  bring  the  old  boy  round  little  by  little;  they 
really  must  be  patient.  Meanwhile  they  could  both 
enjoy  life  as  much  as  possible. 

But  Amabel  had  no  spirit  for  enjoyment  as  he  un- 
derstood the  word.  Since  she  declined  to  wear  the 
pretty  frocks  that  would  have  made  him  proud  of  being 
seen  with  her  in  public,  he  suggested  various  arrange- 
ments for  seeing  her  in  private ;  and  here  again  she  was 
forced  to  incur  his  displeasure  by  another  refusal.  He 
wished  to  take  her  to  those  secret  bachelor  rooms  of 
his,  and  was  really  angry  with  her  when  she  resolutely 
declined  to  go. 

"Jack,"  she  said  piteously,  "don't  ask  me  to  do 
things  that  you  must  know  aren't  right.  How  can  I? 
What  would  you  think  of  me  afterwards  if  I  weakly 
agreed?" 

"I  should  think  that  you'd  been  sensible  and  kind," 
said  Jack,  as  if  righteously  indignant,  "instead  of 
making  a  fuss  about  nothing.  .  .  .  Well,  then  it 
amounts  to  this.  We'll  meet  whenever  I  can  manage  it. 
But  I  must  say  you  make  it  all  jolly  difficult  for  me." 

What  a  speech,  what  a  cruel  inversion!  She,  it 
seemed,  was  making  things  difficult  for  him !  Oh,  Jack ! 

She  hung  her  graceful  head;  she  would  not  protest, 
she  would  not  reproach  him.  No  matter  what  he  said 


152  A  LITTLE  MORE 

or  did,  she  loved  him.  She  had  given  something  into 
his  care  so  completely  that  she  could  not  now  recall 
it:  she  could  only  pray  that,  although  a  rough  cus- 
todian, he  would  not  break  it. 

Thus,  in  this  pleasant  summer  weather,  while  the 
Welby  family  were  flaunting  it  so  gaily,  Amabel  con- 
tinued to  taste  the  cup  of  peculiar  bitterness  in  which 
the  ingredients  are  poverty,  neglected  love,  and  de- 
ferred hope.  She  went  on  humbly  working  and  waiting. 

That  most  odious  of  all  men,  Mr.  Hector  Lyme, 
finally  dismissed  her  from  his  employ,  and  after  two 
temporary  jobs  she  found  a  stool  in  the  offices  of  an 
auctioneer  and  estate  agent  not  far  from  Sloane 
Square. 

Tall,  thin,  hateful  Mr.  Lyme  had  become  an  M.  P. ; 
he  had  made  a  striking  maiden  speech;  he  flourished 
exceedingly.  Already  he  had  persuaded  one  or  two 
other  people  to  speak*  of  his  career,  as  well  as  always 
speaking  of  it  himself.  His  conduct  to  his  attractive 
secretary  was  abominable,  in  one  style  or  another,  all 
the  time  that  she  remained  with  him. 

For  a  long  while  he  bullied  her  consistently. 

"Now,  Miss  Price,  wake  up,  please.  Where  are 
those  letters?  I  say,  where  are  those  letters?  Thank 
you.  Try  not  to  go  to  sleep  on  busy  mornings. 
Time  and  tide  wait  for  no  man — nor  for  dilatory 
young  ladies  either.  I  have  my  career  to  think  of, 
you  know;  and  I  should  be  greatly  obliged,  while  you 
are  in  my  service,  if  you  would  occasionally  bear  it 
in  mind  also." 

Moreover,  he  set  her  little  humiliating  tasks  that  he 
knew  quite  well  do  not  come  within  the  scope  of  a 


PROSPERITY  153 

secretary's  duties.  He  sent  her  on  messages — even  to 
his  valet. 

"Miss  Price,  be  so  good  as  to  go  and  tell  Small  that 
I  shall  wear  a  black  tie  and  dinner  jacket  this  evening 
— not  a  white  waistcoat.  .  .  .  Please  remind  Small  that 
my  dress  shirts  were  disgracefully  washed  last  week. 
Get  him  to  give  you  the  address  of  that  washerwoman 
and  write  her  a  strong  letter  of  complaint.  Stop. 
I'll  tell  you  what  to  say.  Begin,  'Mr.  Hector  Lyme  is 

both  surprised  and  annoyed' But,  no,  you  ought 

by  now  to  be  able  to  write  a  letter  of  that  sort  without 
me  telling  you  word  for  word.  When  you  have  got 
the  address,  make  a  draft  of  the  letter." 

Amabel  always  meekly  obeyed  him.  One  cannot 
afford  to  turn  against  one's  daily  bread  merely  because 
it  tastes  nasty.  And  he  of  course  knew  that.  This 
was  his  way — to  take  advantage  of  people;  and  his 
secret,  ever-increasing  grievance  against  necessitous 
Miss  Price  was  that  he  could  not  take  advantage  as 
much  as  he  wished.  But  he  had  not  renounced  the 
game.  Perhaps  he  was  trying  to  break  her  spirit,  and 
thinking  that  with  every  fresh  petty  outrage  he  was 
drawing  nearer  to  the  desired  end. 

Then  one  morning,  when  he  was  dictating  notes  for 
a  speech  and  his  ideas  would  not  come,  he  nagged  so 
cruelly  that  she  burst  into  tears.  He  either  was  or 
pretended  to  be  very  sorry  for  having  made  her  cry. 
Anyhow  his  tone  changed.  He  wanted  himself  to  dry 
the  tears  with  a  coloured  silk  handkerchief,  calling  her 
"silly  child,"  saying  she  ought  to  know  that  his  bark 
was  worse  than  his  bite;  also  reminding  her  how  he 
had  always  admired  her,  praising  her  soft  pretty  hair, 


154  A  LITTLE  MORE 

and  attempting  to  smooth  it  where  it  had  become 
disordered.  In  other  words  he  tried  to  make  love  to 
her;  and  Amabel  found  herself  back  at  the  begnining 
of  things,  again  compelled  to  fight  for  self-respect  as 
well  as  for  wages  and  meals. 

Rebuffed,  he  fell  once  more  to  bullying,  and  so  went 
on,  until  one  afternoon  he  again  made  her  cry.  On 
this  occasion  perhaps  he  thought  her  spirit  was  really 
broken  at  last. 

When  rebuffed  for  the  second  time,  he  lost  his  temper 
and  gave  Amabel  the  sack. 

"Yes,  you  may  go,"  he  said,  and  he  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  mouthing  and  gesticulating.  "Take  a 
Week's  pay,  or  a  month's  pay,  anything  you  like,  only 
for  goodness'  sake  go  and  leave  me  alone.  I  won't 
have  you  here — sitting  there  upsetting  me  and  making 
me  think  about  you  when  I  ought  to  be  thinking  about 
my  career  and  nothing  else."  Then  at  the  fireplace 
he  turned  his  back  and  kicked  the  bars  of  the  empty 
grate.  "Mine  is  a  temperament  that  cannot  brook 
opposition;  that's  why  I've  worried  about  you.  You 
have  chosen  to  oppose  your  will  to  mine  all  along,  and 
I  won't  stand  it  any  more.  So  you  can  just  clear  out 
— and  let  me  have  a  little  peace.  If  you'd  been  sen- 
sible, I'd  have  been  nice  to  you — yes,  nicer  than  I've 
ever  been  to  anybody."  And  in  his  anger  he  said  such 
amazing  things  that  Amabel  shrank  away  surprised 
and  horrified.  "You  think  because  you've  got  a  long 
nose  and  a  pointed  chin  that  everybody's  going  to  fall 
down  and  worship  you.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Presumption. 
Impertinence.  Your  whole  attitude  is  deceit —  This 
side  of  the  ropes  forbidden;  keep  off  the  grass;  don't 
touch  the  wax  models — but  all  the  time  you're  just 


PROSPERITY  155 

a  cold-blooded  coquette.  You're  the  worst  type  of 
girl  it  was  ever  my  misfortune  to  meet — a  calculating 
tease.  And  you  thought  you'd  got  me  in  your  power 
by  such  stale  old  tricks.  But  no,  I  cut  myself  free  of 
the  annoyance — and  I  go  on  with  my  career." 

Glad,  indeed,  was  Amabel  to  escape  the  sound  of 
the  rasping,  wrathful  voice,  and  breathe  the  open  air 
of  the  street.  She  felt  quite  dazed  by  his  violence. 

Unfortunately  this  was  not  the  end  of  Mr.  Lyme. 
Far  from  it.  A  month  or  two  later  chance  brought 
her  and  Mr.  Lyme  face  to  face  on  the  pavement  out- 
side her  auctioneer's  office.  She  was  going  home  after 
the  day's  work,  and,  without  asking  permission,  he 
walked  by  her  side  along  the  King's  Road. 

He  was  all  smiles  and  honey,  talking  himself  and 
ignoring  her  silence;  then  gradually  getting  her  to 
answer  his  polite  inquiries  as  to  what  she  was  now  doing 
and  how  she  liked  her  new  work.  And  suddenly  he 
told  her  that  her  place  with  him  was  always  open,  and 
he  would  be  only  too  glad  if  she  would  come  back  and 
fill  it. 

"Miss  Price,  I  do  miss  you  dreadfully.  I  don't  push 
ahead  of  a  morning.  My  thoughts  wander.  You  used 
to  keep  me  up  to  the  mark." 

And  in  spite  of  herself,  he  made  her  laugh  by  his 
description  of  the  girl  who  was  now  helping  him. 

"Miss  Price,  she  is  horrid,  after  you.  She's  large 
and  blonde,  like  one  of  those  insipid  batter  puddings 
that  you  get  at  bad  hotels — you  know,  a  lace  thing 
round  her  neck  like  the  white  sauce  round  the  pudding. 
She's  the  sort  of  person  who  means  well  and  never 
stops  making  mistakes.  You  were  so  quick  to  pick  up 
the  hang  of  things.  She  wears  a  gold-rimmed  pince- 


156  A  LITTLE  MORE 

nez,  and  she  suffers  from  adenoids,  but  thinks  she  is 
now  too  old  to  have  them  removed.  She  breathes  so 
hard  that  I  can  hear  her  in  the  passage  before  I  open 
the  door.  Her  name  is  Miss  Grampus." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Lyme,"  said  Amabel,  laughing  because  she 
couldn't  help  it,  "that  can't  be  her  name." 

"It  is,"  said  Mr.  Lyme. 

Amabel  stopped  at  the  corner  leading  to  her  own 
street  and  bade  him  good-night. 

"Ah,  you  don't  want  me  to  go  any  further.  Very 
good.  I  won't  pester  you."  Then,  taking  off  his  hat, 
he  spoke  in  earnest  entreaty.  "Be  generous.  Wipe  out 
the  past  and  come  back  to  me.  I  can't  get  on  without 
you." 

He  had  said  he  would  not  pester  her,  but  that  was 
exactly  what  he  did.  After  this  first  chance  meeting 
he  used  to  lie  in  wait  for  her,  so  as  to  walk  with  her  to 
her  lodgings.  She  could  not  shake  him  off.  He  made 
himself  gay  and  amusing,  he  wooed  her,  he  nagged  at 
her.  There  was  a  word  used  once  or  twice  by  Jack 
that  was  frequently  on  his  loose  lips.  He  implored  her 
to  be  sensible,  and  let  him  establish  her  in  some  jolly 
little  house  where  she  could  have  pretty  things  about 
her.  He  prayed  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  do  some- 
thing, however  small,  to  show  his  disinterested  affection. 
Then  in  a  moment  he  would  be  rating  her.  He  swore 
that  she  had  come  between  him  and  his  work,  she  was 
jeopardizing  his  whole  career,  she  was  playing  the 
devil  with  him.  And  next  moment  he  became  soft  and 
apologetic. 

"Amabel,  forgive  me.  It's  a  compliment,  really. 
Amabel,  be  nice.  Why  that  frown?  I  know.  Be- 


PROSPERITY  157 

cause  you  don't  like  me  to  use  your  Christian  name.  Is 
that  it?" 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Amabel,  hurrying  on. 

"Why  were  you  called  Amabel  if  people  aren't  to 
remember  it?  I  will  call  you  Amabel.  You  know 
what  the  name  means  and  all  it  implies?  It  means 
love — who  or  what  is  loved  and  to  be  loved — derived 
from  the  Latin  verb  known  to  every  schoolboy — even 
Board-school  boys.  Amo,  amas,  amat.  So  there! 
Amabel,  I  love  you,  I  long  for  you,  I  can't  live  with- 
out you." 

Indeed,  he  did  now  truly  long  for  her.  He  could 
not  drive  her  out  of  his  mind.  He  was  haunted  night 
and  day  by  the  slender,  evanescent  ghost  of  her.  Some- 
times when  he  was  more  than  a  mile  away,  say  on  the 
terrace  of  the  House  of  Commons,  he  saw  her  eyes 
with  the  white  lids  flickering  and  the  long  dark  lashes 
giving  him  glimpses  of  sweet  liquid  depths.  He  saw 
her  little  hands  in  the  shabby  gloves.  He  saw  the 
delicate  curve  of  a  pale  averted  cheek,  or  the  swift 
adorable  sunlight  when  for  a  moment  she  turned  and 
reluctantly  smiled.  When  he  saw  these  things  at  a 
distance  he  simply  had  to  dash  off  and  persecute  her 
by  seeing  them  close  by. 

But  it  was  her  herself  that  he  wanted  now — a  little 
more  than  the  mere  pretty  outer  shape.  As  much  as 
could  be  possible  to  such  a  man,  he  felt  real  love  for 
her. 

Thus,  in  these  dreadful  talks,  the  value  that  Mr. 
Lyme  put  upon  Amabel's  favour  was  always  rising. 
So  to  speak,  he  was  always  giving  a  higher  quotation 
to  it. 


158  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Amabel,"  he  said  at  last,  "let's  make  a  real  part- 
nership of  it — a  fighting  alliance.  You  and  I  against 
all  the  world.  I  want  «,  woman  like  you  in  my  life 
to  inspire  me.  You'll  lift  me,  you'll  urge  me  on.  I'll 
do  great  things,  I'll  make  you  proud  of  me.  Try  it. 
If  we  hit  it  off — if  it  works — we  can  legalize  the  bond 
and  make  it  permanent.  .  .  .  No,  I  can't  let  go  your 
hand.  Amabel,  don't  be  so  cruel.  Oh,  damn!  Oh, 
curse." 

And  Amabel  thought,  Where  was  Jack?  Why 
wasn't  he  here  at  her  side  to  protect  her?  Why  did 
he  leave  her  alone  drinking  the  bitter  cup  to  its  dregs? 

About  nine  o'clock  on  a  stifling  warm  night  she 
heard  a  motor  horn  hooting  aggressively  beneath  the 
window  of  her  poor  little  room.  It  was  Mr.  Lyme  in 
his  open  touring  car.  He  would  not  go  away,  and  the 
landlady  said  she  must  descend  to  the  street  "to  pacify 
the  gentleman." 

"Amabel,"  he  whispered,  "come  for  a  spin  with  me 
into  the  country.  It's  such  a  gorgeous  night.  Get 
a  waam  cloak  and  come  with  me.  Yes,  you  must,  you 
must.  We'll  go  spinning  away  to  Maidenhead,  all 
through  the  lovely  quiet  night,"  and  Mr.  Lyme  was  at 
once*  poetical  and  shrewdly  argumentative.  "We'll 
see  the  moonlight  on  the  water,  we'll  hear  the  whisper 
of  the  trees.  It'll  do  you  all  the  good  in  the  world — 
just  a  breath  of  fresh  air  after  that  stuffy  office,  and 
you'll  go  to  your  work  to-morrow  morning  with  oxygen 
in  your  lungs  instead  of  feeling  worn-out  and  half 
dead.  Now  run  in  and  get  your  hat."  And  then  Mr. 
Lyme  said  things  that  for  the  very  first  time  made 
Amabel  think  of  him  almost  tolerantly.  "Only  two 
hours,  Amabel,  for  your  own  good.  Because  it  makes 


PROSPERITY  159 

me  happy  to  have  you  at  my  side,  just  only  as  a  com- 
panion, you  can't  grudge  me  that.  I'm  not  thinking 
of  myself.  I  give  you  my  word  of  honour  I  won't  so 
much  as  touch  your  hand.  I  won't  -pay  you  a  single 
compliment.  You  needn't  even  speak  to  me  if  you  don't 
like.  You  can  just  close  your  sweet  eyes  and  dream, 
till  I  bring  you  safe  back  again." 

Amabel  refused  to  accompany  him  and  went  upstairs 
to  her  close  and  airless  little  room,  while  he  drove  away 
blowing  his  horn  and  blaspheming  horribly. 

Except  that  she  dared  not  give  him  the  least  count- 
enance or  encouragement,  she  would  have  loved  to  go. 
It  would  have  been  rapture  to  get  out  of  this  crowded 
sweltering  town,  to  drink  the  pure  clean  night  air,  to 
watch  the  grey  trees  and  white  fields  flitting  past,  to 
see  the  moonlight  on  the  water.  Those  two  hours 
would  truly  have  done  her  good.  In  imagination  she 
could  feel  the  night  breeze  beating  on  her  hot  forehead 
and  the  oxygen  going  into  her  tired  lungs. 

And  she  thought  that  not  once  had  it  occurred  to 
Jack,  who  possessed  a  grand  touring  car,  to  come  and 
give  her  such  a  treat.  He  could  have  done  it  safely, 
for  no  one  would  be  able  to  see  her  shabby  clothes  in 
the  dark! 

In  the  week  that  followed  she  felt  miserably  un- 
happy; she  was  continually  persecuted  by  Mr.  Lyme, 
and  doubts  as  to  the  intentions  of  Jack  tortured  her. 
However,  after  many  disappointments,  he  was  soon  go- 
ing to  spend  an  evening  with  her.  She  counted  the 
days  till  then. 

The  evening  came,  only  to  bring  with  it  another 
cruel  disappointment.  When  she  read  his  letter  briefly 
telling  her  that  he  was  compelled  once  more  to  postpone 


160  A  LITTLE  MORE 

their  meeting,  she  felt  absolutely  hopeless.  His  love 
must  be  quite  gone,  ox  he  could  not  be  so  unkind.  And 
nearly  all  that  night  she  lay  weeping. 

In  the  morning,  although  she  looked  ill  and  shaky, 
she  went  to  her  work  as  usual;  but  she  asked  and  ob- 
tained leave  to  absent  herself  for  a  couple  of  hours 
after  the  mid-day  break.  She  felt  an  imperious  need 
to  see  Jack  and  to  talk  with  him.  Both  her  courage 
and  her  hope  rose  as  she  thought  of  their  interview. 
She  determined  that  nothing  should  ever  make  her 
believe  him  false  until  he  proved  himself  false;  but  she 
determined  also  that  she  would  put  him  to  the  proof 
forthwith.  Gentle  and  meek  as  she  was,  she  felt  a 
hot  revolt  against  any  further  submission. 

She  went  first  to  Knightsbridge,  where  the  porter  of 
the  flats  told  her  that  Mr.  Welby,  junior,  was  not  in 
the  building.  He  had  not  been  there  since  yesterday. 

She  had  written  a  note,  but  she  would  not  leave  it 
for  him.  Outside  the  great  red-brick  pile  she  stood 
hesitating  for  a  moment.  Then  she  made  up  her  mind. 
She  would  go  next  to  Jack's  private  rooms.  She  had 
always  refused  to  go  there;  indeed,  until  yesterday  she 
had  not  even  known  where  his  rooms  were  situated. 
Hut  now  the  time  was  past  for  scruples.  She  wanted 
to  find  him,  and  that  was  the  most  likely  place.  She 
fetched  his  letter  from  her  pocket  and  glanced  at  the 
address  on  the  .thick  paper,  in  order  to  make  sure 
that  she  correctly  remembered  the  number.  Two 
hundred,  Prince's  Gate — yes,  that  was  it.  She  turned 
and  walked  back  to  the  imposing  residence  of  Mrs. 
and  Miss  Quartz. 

Already  overwhelmed  by  the  grandeurs  of  the  Welby 
family,  she  saw  nothing  in  the  aspect  of  this  magnif- 


PROSPERITY  161 

icent  corner  house  to  suggest  that  it  was  altogether 
too  fine  for  the  bachelor  quarters  of  even  such  a  regal 
spendthrift  as  Mr.  Jack.  Nor  did  the  stately  footman, 
the  solemn  butler,  the  marble-flagged  hall,  which  were 
disclosed  by  the  open  door,  surprise  her. 

On  the  other  hand  the  servants  seemed  surprised. 

She  stood  just  inside  the  door,  and  as  she  stood 
there,  shyly  asking  for  her  sweetheart,  it  chanced  that 
the  tall  and  splendid  Irene  crossed  the  marble  pave- 
ment to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  heard  her  inquiries. 

"Come  here,  please,"  said  Irene,  with  a  grandly 
condescending  air,  and  she  questioned  Amabel. 

"Yes,"  said  Amabel,  "I  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Welby  if 
possible.  If  not,  I  have  a  note  for  him." 

"Very  well,"  said  Irene,  taking  the  note  out  of  her 
hand,  and  she  questioned  Amabel  suspiciously. 

"No,"  she  said,  "he  does  not  live  here." 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  I  have  made  a  mistake,"  said 
Amabel,  and  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  recover  the 
note. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Irene.  "I'll  see  that  he  gets 
it.  He  comes  here  often." 

"I  would  prefer  to  have  it  back,"  said  Amabel,  still 
with  outstretched  hand.  "It  is  rather  urgent." 

Then  for  a  moment  or  so  the  two  girls  stood  looking 
at  each  other,  both  of  them  pale  and  intent,  both 
breathing  fast.  And  then  Irene,  with  the  note  firmly 
held,  turned  her  back,  and  went  up  the  broad  staircase, 
saying  something  over  her  shoulder  to  the  servants. 

Amabel  was  shown  out  to  the  street. 

She  stood  upon  the  pavement  feeling  a  prey  to  many 
emotions.  She  was  confused,  worried,  agitated,  and, 
though  so  meek  and  gentle,  very  indignant  too.  Where 


162  A  LITTLE  MORE 

was  Jack?  Why  did  he  write  letters  from  the  house 
of  that  odious  insulting  red-haired  girl? 

She  hailed  a  passing  taxicab,  sprang  into  it,  and 
told  the  driver  to  take  her  to  Jack's  Piccadilly  club. 
She  knew  the  address  of  that. 

But  he  was  not  at  the  club.  It  being  a  large  secondi- 
class  club,  the  hall-porter  did  not  feel  sure  whether  he 
was  there  or  not ;  and  Amabel  had  to  stand  in  the  hall, 
stared  at  by  every  man  who  came  in  or  out,  compelled 
to  change  her  place  from  moment  to  moment  because 
of  luggage  arriving  and  departing,  while  a  buttoned 
boy  went  all  over  the  premises  and  shouted  in  a  shrill, 
mournful  voice:  "Mr.  Welby,  please,"  so  that  all  the 
staring  men  should  know  for  whom  she  stood  waiting. 
When  the  boy  returned  with  the  definite  result  of  no 
Mr.  Welby,  poor  Amabel  craved  permission  to  sit  at 
a  table  in  the  corner  of  the  hall  and  use  the  writing 
materials  on  it.  Sitting  there,  she  wrote  Jack  another 
note — a  more  urgent  note;  then,  leaving  it  with  the 
hall  porter,  she  hurried  back  to  the  office  by  omnibus. 

She  had  outstayed  her  two  hours'  leave;  the  people 
at  the  office  were  rude  to  her,  and  told  her  to  put  her 
back  into  it  now  till  closing  time. 

She  plodded  on  at  her  typewriting  machine,  in  the 
upstairs  room  where  she  and  other  female  drudges  did 
the  common  uninteresting  work,  hidden  away  from  all 
the  life  and  excitement  of  the  ground-floor  offices,  and 
she  felt  humiliated,  desperate,  utterly  wretched. 

So  far  as  excuses  for  Jack  were  concerned,  she  had 
— in  his  own  phrase — reached  the  end  of  her  tether. 
Of  Mr.  Lyme  she  thought  with  horror  and  a  little 
fear.  She  had  begun  to  be  frightened  by  his  cruel 
persistence.  And  this  afternoon  there  came  into  her 


PROSPERITY  163 

mind  keenly  regretful  memories  of  that  Mr.  Wright, 
that  good  kind  honest  middle-aged  creature,  the  only 
really  chivalrous  man  that  she  had  ever  encountered. 
She  thought  of  the  Bickley  house — the  snug  little  box 
with  the  trim  garden,  the  mound,  and  the  view  of  the 
Crystal  Palace.  But  for  Jack,  she  would  have  been 
safe  out  there;  cherished,  honoured,  and  guarded  by  a 
faithful  husband.  It  would  have  been  honest  humdrum 
affection.  Why  had  she  not  taken  it  when  she  was 
given  the  chance?  Why  had  she  wanted  a  little  more 
than  that? 

No  doubt  Mr.  Wright  had  married  .somebody  else  by 
now — and  she  hoped  he  was  very  very  happy.  He 
deserved  to  be. 

A  little  before  tea-time  Jack  looked  in  upon  Irene  at 
Prince's  Gate.  He  came  straight  from  Hurst  Park 
race-course,  where  he  had  heavily  backed  some  losers, 
and  then  feeling  disgusted  had  left  immediately  after 
the  three-o'clock  race.  Now,  as  he  mounted  the 
Quartz  staircase  and  touched  with  a  dandified  lordly 
air  its  golden  balustrade,  he  thought  again  of  the  solid 
wealth  of  the  house.  Very  likely  all  the  decoration 
might  be  bad  taste,  but  it  represented  substantial 
capital.  With  this  behind  him  a  fellow  could  be  much 
more  at  ease. 

He  saw  at  once  that  there  was  something  queer  with 
Irene;  her  manner  seemed  abrupt,  and  she  caught  her 
breath  and  stood  panting  when  she  had  given  him 
Amabel's  note. 

"Oh,  this  is  nothing,"  said  Jack,  putting  the  envelope 
in  his  pocket. 

"How  can  you  tell  until  you  have  read  it?"  said 


164  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Irene,  gaspingly.  "Read  it,"  and  she  stamped  her 
foot.  "Ah,  you  are  afraid  to  read  it." 

Jack  laughed;  then  he  moved  to  one  of  the  big 
French  windows,  opened  the  letter,  and  read  it. 

"Now  let  me  read  it,"  said  Irene. 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear." 

"Bring  me  that  letter  here,"  cried  Irene  passionately. 
"I  insist  on  reading  every  word  that  girl  has  written." 

"Why  do  you  want  to?" 

"Because  I  don't  trust  you.  Ah!"  Jack  was 
tearing  the  letter  into  fragments,  and  Irene  raised  her 
voice  almost  to  a  scream.  "I  knew  it.  You  are  a 
coward  and  a  traitor." 

Jack  threw  the  little  bits  of  paper  out  of  the  window 
and  watched  their  dancing  flight  over  the  balcony. 
Then  he  laughed  again  as  he  moved  toward  the  door. 

"Good  afternoon,  Irene." 

"Of  course,"  said  Irene,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
tone,  "if  you  have  any  possible  explanation  to  offer!" 

"I  have  no  explanation  to  offer  you,  my  dear,  either 
about  this  or  anything  else." 

"I  hate  you !"  Irene  shouted.  "I  hate  you !  I  hate 
you !" 

Jack  went  downstairs  and  out  of  the  house. 

Irene  rushed  to  her  mother  and  was  fearfully  rude 
to  her;  then  she  lay  upon  her  bed  and  wept;  then  she 
sat  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to  Jack,  and  sent  it 
off  by  her  maid.  In  the  letter  she  asked  him  to  forgive 
her  for  having  been  so  violent. 

Meanwhile  he  had  gone  straight  to  Sloane  Square  to 
see  Amabel.  Entering  the  ground-floor  offices  of  the 
auctioneer,  he  looked  so  grand  and  careless  that  the 
clerks  felt  sure  he  meant  to  buy  a  large  estate  without 


PROSPERITY  165 

haggling  over  terms;  they  were  disappointed  when  he 
said  he  merely  wanted  one  of  their  type  girls,  and  they 
sent  him  out  of  the  front  door  to  a  little  side  door, 
where  he  waited  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  flight  of  stairs 
till  Amabel  came  down  to  him.  He  was  angry  with  her, 
but  at  sight  of  her  drawn  face  and  tired  eyes  he  felt 
compunction.  Moreover,  there  was  something  queer 
in  her  manner,  just  as  there  had  been  in  Irene's. 

Curbing  his  irritation,  he  gravely  reproved  her  for 
having  gone  to  hunt  for  him  at  the  house  of  friends. 
Such  a  silly  thing  is  never  done,  he  told  her.  It  makes 
people  talk  and  wonder.  "You  couldn't  have  done 
anything  worse,  unless  you  had  gone  to  hunt  for  me 
at  my  club." 

Amabel  confessed  that  she  had  done  that  too. 

This  confession  made  him  very  angry,  and  he  spoke 
unkindly  but  not  brutally. 

"Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  me?"  said  Amabel, 
watching  his  face. 

"Yes,  I'll  say  no  more,"  and  he  shrugged  his1 
shoulders.  "Dear  old  Mab,  it  doesn't  matter  really. 
But  you  have  done  your  best  to  make  me  look  foolish." 

"Jack,"  said  Amabel,  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
"who  is  that  girl?" 

"She's  a  friend  of  Vi's." 

"Tell  me  the  truth.     What  is  she  to  you?" 

Jack  laughed;  but  his  laugh  was  embarrassed,  not 
hard  and  mocking,  as  it  had  been  just  now  with  Irene. 

"Amabel,  my  pretty  one,  we  can't  stand  talking  here. 
It's  too  ridiculous." 

"Yes,  but  I  must  speak  to  you.  All  this  is  not 
going  on,  you  know.  I  demand  a  full  explanation." 

"Well,  come  along.     We'll  go  to  a  tea-shop." 


166  A  LITTLE  MORE 

But  Amabel  was  unable  to  leave  her  work.  She 
asked  him  to  wait  for  her  till  six  o'clock,  when  the 
office  closed.  He  could  not  do  so,  and  she  asked  him 
to  give  her  the  evening;  she  would  meet  him  anywhere 
after  six.  But  he  could  not  do  that,  either. 

"Jack,"  she  said,  holding  his  arm,  "I  tell  you  I  must 
speak  to  you.  I'm  not  going  to  be  trifled  with  any 
longer.  I  need  your  help.  I  need  what  I've  a  right 
to  expect  from  you — truth  and  not  deception." 

Finally  he  appointed  her  to  meet  him  at  the  Welby 
flat  on  the  following  evening,  and,  in  spite  of  her"  great 
reluctance,  he  insisted  that  she  should  agree  to  this. 

"You  know  how  they  treat  me,"  she  said.  "They 
don't  want  me  there.  Your  mother  hates  the*  sight  of 
me." 

"The  mater  will  herself  write  and  ask  you  to  dinner 
to-morrow,"  he  said.  "I  may  be  a  little  late — but  you 
mustn't  mind  that.  They  are  going  to  a  fancy  dress 
ball.  You  and  I  will  have  a  real  good  quiet  yarn  while 
they're  dressing  themselves  up  for  it." 

Then  he  went  back  to  Knightsbridge  and  compelled 
Mrs.  Welby,  very  much  against  her  will,  to  invite  Miss 
Price  to  dinner. 

At  the  flat  he  found  Irene's  letter,  marked  "Im- 
mediate," with  three  great  frantic  dashes  under  the 
word.  Irene  implored  him  to  show  his  forgiveness"  by 
ringing  her  up  on  the  telephone  at  their  usual  hour 
of  11  P.  M. 

He  did  not  do  so,  because  at  that  time  he  was  other- 
wise occupied — playing  baccarat  and  losing  largely. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IT  was  the  night  of  the  carnival  ball,  the  culmi- 
nating event  of  this  brilliant  season ;  and,  as  Mrs. 
Welby  remembered  long  afterwards,  everything 
seemed  to  be  going  wrong  all  through  the  evening 
from  the  moment  that  Timesman  announced  dinner. 

"What's  the  matter  with  that  girl?"  said  Mr.  Welby. 
"Is  she  ill,  or  sulky,  or  what?" 

"Hush!"  said  Mrs.  Welby;  for  Amabel  Price  was 
only  a  few  yards  awa.y  from  them,  as  she  passed  with 
the  others  into  the  dining-room. 

"And  why  is  she  here  at  all?"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "I 
don't  like  it." 

"I  know.  It's  wrong.  But  Jack  made  me  invite 
her." 

"And  doesn't  come  home  himself  i  Upon  my  word, 
he  is  the  limit." 

They  all  sat  down,  and  Mr.  Welby  pulling  himself 
together  tried  to  be  happy  and  genial,  but  failed.  The 
fact  was  he  had  so  many  matters  on  his  mind.  He  felt 
bothered,  because  his  manager,  Mr.  Bernstein,  had  gone 
off  without  orders  or  permission  to  Vienna.  For  three 
days  those  people  at  the  company  offices  had  been 
plaguing  the  chairman  for  instructions,  and  in  the 
absence  of  Bernstein  the  chairman  was  totally  incapable 
of  giving  instructions.  Bernstein  knew  everything,  and 
Mr.  Welby  still  knew  nothing. 

"Have   some  more  oysters,   Miss  Amabel.     They're 

nourishing.     Make  a  good  dinner."     He  said  it  in  a 

167 


168  A  LITTLE  MORE 

hospitable  but  patronizing  tone,  as  if  well  aware  that 
a  person  in  Miss  Price's  walk  of  life  did  not  get  the 
chance  of  a  good  dinner  every  day  of  the  week. 

"An  old  school-friend,"  Mrs.  Welby  whispered  to 
Adolphus  Faring,  and  then  had  such  an  access  of 
tittering  that  she  spilt  her  soup. 

Dolly  Faring  and  Hugo  Blyth,  who  had  never  seen 
her  before,  looked  at  Amabel  curiously,  and  the  girls 
as  well  as  their  mother  thought  that  she  needed  a  good 
deal  of  explaining  away.  'Seated  there,  pale  and  silent, 
with  Jack's  empty  chair  on  her  left  hand,  she  seemed 
strangely  out  of  place;  her  simple  blouse  and  black 
hat  formed  such  a  contrast  to  the  splendour  of  her  old 
companions.  Violet  was  in  mauve  and  silver,  Primrose 
in  scarlet  and  gold,  both  frocks  having  fashionably  low 
bodices.  "I  call  it  too  bad  of  Jack,"  Violet  had  said 
when  she  heard  that  Amabel  was  coming  to  dinner. 
"I'll  never  forgive  him  for  this." 

With  the  fish  Hugo  Blyth  annoyed  Mr.  Welby  by 
laughingly  declaring  that  there  was  going  to  be  a 
European  war. 

"There  will  be  no  war,"  said  the  host  severely.  "And 
let  me  tell  you,  sir,  if  there  was  a  war  it  would  be  no) 
laughing  matter.  You  and  a  many  others  would  be 
laughing  t'other  side  of  your  face  before  it  was  over." 

"Ha-ha-ha!  Bravo,  Pa  Welby,"  said  Hugo  un- 
abashed, indeed  delighted.  "I  was  only  pulling  your 
leg.  Go  on —  tell  us  some  more." 

"I  do  not  think  only  of  myself,  when  I  say  war 
must  be  averted  at  all  costs,"  said  Mr.  Welby  less 
severely.  "It  is  not  only  people  like  me  with  large 
interests  on  the  continent,  but  humble  folk  at  home 


PROSPERITY  169 

here  in  England  who  would  suffer.  A  war,  however 
short,  would  entail  a  vast  deal  of  unemployment;  life 
would  be  rendered  difficult  to  all  who  were  not  engaged 
in  safe  jobs  and  essential  trades." 

"Ha-ha-ha.  Keep  it  going.  Ma  Welby,  he's  as 
good  as  a  book." 

"Timesman,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  in  order  to  change  the 
conversation,  "you  ordered  the  car,  of  course?" 

"Yes,  sir.     Eleven-forty  sharp." 

"That's  right,"  said  Dolly  Faring.  "It's  only  sup- 
posed to  begin  at  midnight,  but  I  should  advise  you 
to  get  there  early.  There'll  be  an  awful  squash." 

"You  hear  that  ?"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "Let  me  see  you 
all  ready  in  the  hall  by  eleven-thirty." 

Then  they  talked  of  the  ball.  Mr.  Faring  described 
the  fabulously  rich  costumes  and  the  magnificent  jewels 
that  would  be  worn  by  certain  grand  ladies,  citing  the 
historic  pearls  of  a  duchess  and  the  world-famous 
emeralds  of  a  princess.  This  talk  about  the  jewels 
enervated  Violet  and  her  sister,  for  of  course  neither 
possessed  such  treasures. 

"Oh,  stop  it,"  cried  Primrose  at  last.  "Muzzle  him, 
Vi.  He's  making  me  feel  as  if  we  might  just  as  well 
throw  up  the  sponge." 

"Ha-ha-ha.  Throw  up  the  sponge!  How  ripping. 
What  things  she  says.  Muzzle  him." 

But,  unmuzzled  and  impassive,  Dolly  Faring  con- 
tinued ;  telling  them  now  of  the  royal  procession,  the 
royal  supper  in  a  specially  prepared  room,  and  the 
royal  quadrille  to  be  danced  in  a  space  cleared  for  it 
with  crimson  silk  ropes.  Some  of  the  smartest  men 
in  town  would  hold  the  ropes  and  keep  back  the  press- 
ing throng  of  enraptured  spectators. 


170  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Then  all  at  once  Mr.  Welby  interrupted  him  with 
frowning  sternness.  "Hold  hard.  Stop  a  bit.  Let 
me  get  my  bearings,  please.  What's  all  this  about 
ropes  and  special  suppers?"  And  he  went  on  to  say 
that  he  had  bought  the  tickets  on  the  plain  under- 
standing that  he  was  to  rub  shoulders  with  royal 
personages.  Was  that  the  bargain  or  not?  If  so, 
what  was  this  talk  of  being  roped  off,  pushed  into 
corners,  and  herded  this  way  that  way  like  a  pack 
of  vulgar  sheep? 

And  he  had  quite  an  outburst,  tackling  Dolly  with 
the  utmost  severity.  Dolly  gave  him  a  very  courteous 
explanation — to  the  effect  that  the  Welbys  with  every- 
body else  would  see  and  be  quite  near  to  the  royal 
party,  but  that  actual  rub-shouldering  would  be  per- 
formed only  by  certain  very  great  people. 

"I  consider  myself  and  my  family  as  good  as  any- 
body else,"  said  Mr.  Welby  hotly. 

Dolly  said  he  thought  so  too.  He  added  that  Mr. 
Welby  might  have  occupied  a  more  prominent  position 
at  the  ball  as  a  member  of  the  charity  committee;  but 
for  that  he  would  have  had  to  pay  more  money. 

"I  paid  all  you  asked — you  never  mentioned  a  word 
of  such  humiliating  distinctions.  You  named  the 
price,  and  I  didn't  attempt  to  beat  you  down,  did  I? 
I  wrote  the  cheque  and  you  pocketed  it." 

"For  the  charity,"  said  Mr.  Faring. 

Then  Mr.  Welby  said  that  had  he  known  he  would 
have  acted  differently,  that  he  did  not  like  and  never 
had  liked  'umbug,  and  that  he  had  a  very  good  mind 
not  to  go  to  the  ball  at  all. 

"Well,"  said  Faring,  courteously,  "why  not  chuck  it  ? 


PROSPERITY  171 

If  it  bores  you,  don't  go.  In  buying  the  tickets  you 
have  done  all  that's  really  necessary.  You  have  helped 
the  charity." 

"Oh,  damn  the  charity." 

"Fined!"  said  Hugo  Blyth,  roaring  with  laughter. 
"Penny  in  the  slot  for  bad  language,  please." 

"Hold  your  tongue,  sir." 

But  Hugo,  laughing  more  and  more,  presently 
calmed  down  Mr.  Welby  and  got  him  back  into  what 
looked  outwardly  like  a  good  temper.  He  said  that  of 
course  Mr.  Welby  must  go  to  the  dance,  being  at  heart 
nothing  but  a  big  tomboy  and  loving  a  romp  as  much  as 
the  youngest  of  them.  Besides,  since  he  had  chosen 
dresses  for  his  two  pretty  daughters,  he  must  see  them 
worn. 

Violet  had  been  tortured  by  her  father's  lapse  from 
fashionable  manners  and  the  gross  disrespect  that  he 
had  shown  to  Dolly.  So  that  in  spite  of  Hugo's  mer- 
riment the  meal  had  a  heavy,  sombre  ending.  Coffee 
and  liqueurs  were  served  at  table,  and  Mr.  Welby 
drank  and  smoked  in  silence. 

"Like  a  bear  with  a  sore  head,"  said  the  respectful 
butler,  speaking  of  him  to  the  footman  out  in  the  hall. 

Edward  the  footman  had  just  been  to  the  lobby  and 
had  taken  in  a  small  parcel  brought  by  a  special 
messenger.  Timesman  put  it  on  a  side  table  after 
glancing  at  it. 

"I  hoped  it  was  Prim's  dress,"  she  said;  "what  she's 
been  fussing  and  'phoning  about  all  the  afternoon. 
Little  Prim  will  make  a  fine  to-do  when  she  hears  it 
hasn't  come";  and  he  smiled  indulgently.  "What  a 
prize  packet  of  impudence  she  is !  Mind  you,  in  a  way 


172  A  LITTLE  MORE 

the  little  minx  gets  me.  Anyhow,  she's  better  than  Vi. 
That  Violet  is  just  a  lump." 

"Oh,  I  like  Violet  best  of  the  two,"  said  Edward, 
yawning  uncouthly,  as  he  went  through  the  baize  door 
leading  to  the  servants'  quarters. 

Almost  immediately  Primrose  and  Mr.  Blyth  came 
rushing  into  the  hall.  She  dashed  across  to  the  table 
on  which  stood  the  telephone  instrument,  and  snatched 
at  the  receiver. 

"Oh,  what  demons,"  she  cried  wildly,  "what  utter 
fiends  those  Coulisses  are!  They  swore  by  all  their 
gods  that  it  would  be  here  before  nine  o'clock.  Blast 
them,  I've  forgotten  their  number" ;  and  she  banged 
her  disengaged  hand  upon  the  table.  "Hugo,  you 
rotter,  come  here.  Quick!  The  telephone  book. 
Coulisse,  Madame  and  Company.  Find  the  number." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  interposed  Timesman,  very 
gravely  and  respectfully.  "Did  you  say  Madame 
Coulisse?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"There's  a  small  parcel  come  from  them." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"Here,  Miss." 

Primrose  had  sprung  away  from  the  telephone,  and 
snatching  the  parcel  from  Timesman's  hand  she  laughed 
ecstatically. 

"Yes,  that's  it.     Thank  you,  Timesman.     All  right." 

"Thank  you,  miss,"  and  Timesman  withdrew  through 
the  baize  door. 

Primrose  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  swinging  her 
legs,  clutching  the  cardboard  box  to  her  bosom,  and 


PROSPERITY  173 

"Hugo,  shall  I  tell  you  a  secret?  I  don't  intend  to 
be  seen  as  a  soppy  flower  girl  just  to  please  daddy.  I 
shall  burst  upon  them  as  a  water  nymph.  A  naiad. 
A  jolly  little  naiad  out  of  a  babbling  brook.  What 
I'm  going  to  wear  to-night  is  in  here." 

"What,  all  of  it?" 

Primrose  nodded  her  head  and  laughed  audaciously. 

"Then  you  aren't  going  to  wear  much." 

"It  isn't  much,  above  the  waist — and  it's  nothing  at 
all  below  the  waist." 

"Nothing!"  cried  Hugo,  enraptured.  "Ha-ha-ha. 
But  you  can't  really  mean  that.  Oh,  what  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"I  mean  tights,"  said  Primrose.     "Zut!" 

The  others  were  coming  from  the  dining-room;  she 
sprang  off  the  table,  and  danced  away  to  her  room,  to 
hide  her  secret  there  till  it  should  be  wanted. 

"My  word,  how  hot  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "That's 
the  worst  of  a  flat.  You  never  seem  to  get  proper 
ventilation,"  and  he  looked  round  for  Timesman,  in- 
tending to  tell  him  to  bring  the  old  brandy  into  the 
hall. 

"Not  to-night,"  whispered  Mrs.  Welby,  divining  his 
intention.  "I  do  want  you  to  be  all  there  and  quite 
at  your  best  for  the  dance.  Remember  your  solemn 
promise." 

Mr.  Welby  grunted,  but  acquiesced.  Then  he  sat 
puffing  and  blowing  in  one  leather  arm-chair,  and  Mrs. 
Welby  sat  tittering  in  another. 

Meanwhile  the  young  people  were  faced  with  an 
awkward  problem.  It  was  only  half-past  nine  o'clock, 
and  they  had  to  kill  time  somehow  for  another  hour  at 


174.  A  LITTLE  MORE 

least  before  beginning  to  dress  for  the  carnival.  For 
a  few  moments  they  were  dreadfully  troubled.  What 
the  dickens  should  they  do? 

"Why,  the  darts,  of  course,"  cried  Hugo  Blyth, 
saving  the  situation. 

"Yes,  yes,  the  darts!  Of  course.  How  stupid  of 
us  not  to  think  of  them,"  and  they  all  rushed  off  to  the 
drawing-room. 

These  darts  were  a  delightful  new  game  recently 
purchased  by  Primrose  and  Hugo.  You  set  up  your 
target  against  the  back  of  a  sofa,  on  the  mantelpiece, 
or  anywhere;  you  wound  up  your  mechanical  gun — 
and  fizz-bang,  away  fled  the  dart,  and  you  shrieked  with 
laughter  whether  you  hit  the  mark  or  missed  it.  Some- 
times the  dart  flew  so  absurdly  wide  and  made  such 
boomerang  curves,  that  the  players  had  to  jump  and 
dodge  frantically  to  avoid  empalement.  Soon  the 
noisy  charming  game  was  in  full  swing. 

Amabel  said  she  did  not  want  to  play,  so  they  used 
her  to  increase  the  noise  by  working  the  gramophone. 
She  stood  at  this  almost  indispensable  instrument, 
putting  in  the  records  one  after  another,  and  all  the 
while  watching  the  door  through  which  Jack  did  not 
come.  Her  face  grew  paler  and  her  heart  heavier  with 
each  new  rattling  tune. 

So  they  went  on.  From  the  hall  one  heard  the 
buzzing  music,  the  continuous  thud  of  the  gun,  the 
shrieks  of  laughter,  and  every  now  and  then  the  crash 
of  an  overturned  chair. 

"What's  that?"  said  Mr.  Welby,  on  the  sound  of 
broken  glass.  "They  aren't  shooting  at  the  ornaments, 
are  they?" 

"Oh,  surely  not,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 


PROSPERITY  175 

"That  little  beggar  'Ugo  wouldn't  scruple.  Go  and 
see.  Stop  'em  if  they're  up  to  real  mischief." 

But  Mrs.  Welby  begged  that  they  might  not  be 
interfered  with;  she  said  it  seemed  such  a  pity  to  stop 
them  when  they  were  so  innocently  happy. 

"Oh,  all  right.  Have  it  your  own  way,"  said 
Mr.  Welby,  with  another  grunt.  Then  after  a  silence : 
"Mother.  D'you  really  think  another  drop  of  brandy 
would  do  me  any  harm?" 

"Yes,  dear,  I  do  really." 

"I  feel  to  want  it." 

"Try  not  to  think  of  it.     Here,  read  the  newspaper." 

"No.  I  need  something  more  stimulating  than  the 
newspaper.  I  feel  tired — more  than  usual — to-night. 
.  .  .  Now  what  is  it?" 

Across  the  hall,  behind  his  back,  the  footman  had 
gone  to  the  outer  door,  and  Timesman  anxiously  fol- 
lowed. Next  moment  a  respectably-dressed  woman  of 
the  middle  classes  pushed  her  way  into  the  hall. 

"Miss  Brown,  this  really  won't  do,"  said  Timesman, 
appalled  by  her  audacity.  "Mr.  Welby  can't  possibly 
see  you.  They're  going  to  a  fancy-dress  ball." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  said  Sarah.  "Of  course  he'll  see 
me — fancy  ball  or  not.  I  tell  you  I  shall  be  more  than 
welcome  to-night,"  and  she  slapped  her  hand-bag 
proudly.  "Ah,  there  you  are,  sir !  Good  evening,  sir." 

Mr.  Welby  rose  from  his  chair,  and,  ignoring  the 
old  friend  and  servant,  he  spoke  angrily  to  Timesman. 

"What  were  my  orders — my  repeated  orders?  I 
told  you  to  admit  no  one  at  all — when  that  clerk 
from  Mr.  Rolls  came  here  before  dinner." 

"I  know,  sir,"  said  Timesman,  moving  his  hands  as 
if  greatly  distressed. 


176  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"It's  your  business  to  get  my  wishes  obeyed." 

"I  know,  sir,"  and  Timesman  retired,  as  if  in  deep 
misery. 

"Now,  Sarah,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  intrusion?" 

"Just  this,"  said  Sarah,  opening  the  hand-bag  and 
bringing  out  an  envelope.  "All  that  interest  on  the 
mortgage.  I've  brought  it  before  the  time.  You 
were  so  kind  as  to  give  me  till  the  half  quarter.  That's 
the  eighth  August,  and  to-day's  only  twenty-seventh 
July." 

She  spoke  in  pride,  and  in  full  confidence  also,  that 
at  sight  of  the  envelope,  heavy  and  bulging  with  coin 
of  the  realm,  Mr.  Welby's  satisfaction  would  be  as 
great  as  her  own.  Poor  soul,  the  envelope  represented 
such  hard  work,  so  much  scraping  and  saving,  that 
naturally  it  seemed  to  her  something  important.  But 
to  Mr.  Welby  it  was  of  course  a  very  trifling  affair. 

"Why  didn't  you  leave  it  at  Mr.  Rolls's?"  he  said, 
carelessly  putting  the  envelope  aside.  "You  needn't 
have  brought  it  to  me." 

"I  wanted  you  to  have  the  pleasure  and  surprise  as 
soon  as  possible,"  said  Sarah.  "I  only  made  up  the 
amount  this  afternoon." 

"Well,  well." 

Sarah  stood  looking  at  her  late  master  and  mistress, 
and  smiled  at  them  affectionately;  then  she  asked  per- 
mission to  sit  down  for  a  minute. 

"In  my  excitement  I  wouldn't  wait  for  your  lift, 
ma'am.  I  came  up  two  at  a  time,  and  it's  given  me  the 
stitch.  Now,  sir,  here's  something  you'll  be  glad  to 
hear,"  and  she  nodded  and  smiled  at  him.  "It's  a 
hard  struggle  I'm  having,  but  I  do  believe  I'm  going 


PROSPERITY  177 

to  turn  the  corner.  Yes,  I  do.  Mind  you,  I'm  risking 
a  great  deal;  but  it's  the  only  way." 

Then  she  explained  that,  seeing  plainly  how  her 
establishment  could  never  succeed  without  more  sleeping 
accommodation,  she  was  about  to  secure  the  two  houses 
on  the  other  side  of  their  old  home.  By  a  lucky  chance 
they  had  fallen  vacant,  and  taking  her  courage  in 
both  hands  she  jumped  at  them.  They  would  give  her 
enough  beds  to  make  a  big  thing  of  it  all. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Welby  showed  languid  interest  in 
Sarah's  plots,  but  when  she  begged  to  hear  about  the 
ball  "of  which  the  man-servant  had  spoken,"  they  talked 
to  her  with  more  animation,  explaining  that  it  would 
indeed  be  a  very  splendid  assembly,  with  the  highest 
in  the  land  present.  Sarah  was  slow  to  comprehend 
why  the  guests  should  masquerade  in  characters  other 
than  their  own.  Finally,  however,  it  was  made  clear. 

"And  the  young  ladies — my  two  dears — hotf  will 
they  go,  like?" 

Mrs.  Welby  said  the  young  ladies  would  go  as  two 
flower-girls,  each  carrying  a  tray  of  their  name  flowers 
— Violets  and  Primroses. 

"Oh,  what  a  pretty  idea!"  said  Sarah,  enchanted. 
"Whose  idea  was  that  now?" 

"It  was  my  idea,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  mollified  by  the 
compliment.  "Entirely  my  idea." 

"Oh,  they  will  be  admired.  And  what  are  you, 
ma'am?"  Mrs.  Welby  said  she  was  going  as  Madame 
de  Pompadour —  "The  favourite  of  a  French  king." 

"Well,  what  next?"  said  Sarah,  with  sympathetic 
delight.  "But  I  think  you  ought  to  go  as  Mr.  Welby's 
favourite.  Yes,  I  do,"  and  she  laughed  cheerfully. 
"And  what  may  you  be,  sir  ?" 


178  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"A  mandarin." 

"What's  that,  sir?" 

"A  Chinese  statesman — and  a  philosopher." 

"Ah,  that's  what  I've  heard  you  mention  in  the  old 
days !  You'll  be  all  at  home  in  that,  sir." 

Then  Sarah  sprang  up  from  her  chair.  For,  with 
momentary  increase  of  noise,  the  drawing-room  door 
had  been  opened  and  shut.  Amabel  Price  came  dis- 
consolately into  the  hall. 

"Well,  upon  my  word,  if  it  isn't  dear  Miss  Amabel. 
This  is  a  pleasant  sight  to  my  eyes,"  and  Sarah  offered 
an  enthusiastic  greeting.  "We've  bin  talking  of  the 
wonderful  dresses.  What's  yours,  miss?" 

"I — I'm  not  going  to  the  ball,"  said  Amabel. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  beginning  to  titter,  "Miss 
Price  does  not  accompany  us." 

"Aren't  you  well?"  said  Sarah,  examining  Amabel 
solicitously.  "Oh,  you  do  look  tired  and  ill !" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Welby.  "Wouldn't  you  like  to 
go  home — dear?  It's  getting  rather  late." 

"No,  I'd  like  to  stay  a  little  longer,  if  you  don't 
mind,"  said  Amabel  tremulously.  "I — I  want  to  see 
Jack.  He — he  asked  me  to  wait.  I  thought  perhaps 
he  had  returned." 

And  she  went  back  to  the  drawing-room  and  the 
dart-players. 

"Master  Jack!"  said  Sarah.  "You've  given  me  no 
news  of  him.  Is  he  for  the  ball,  too?" 

Yes,  Mrs.  Welby  said,  Jack  was  going  to  the  ball 
as  a  sort  of  Pierrot.  "But  you  wouldn't  know  what 
that  means,  perhaps.  A  kind  of  harlequin." 

"/  see.  Will  he  have  to  black  his  face  for  that, 
ma'am?" 


PROSPERITY  179 

"No,  nor  to  whiten  it  either.  No,  he  is  too  good- 
looking  to  spoil. himself  by  make-up." 

"So  he  is,"  said  Sarah  cordially.  "Good-night, 
ma'am.  I  can  find  my  way  out.  Good-night,  sir — 
and  do  please  ^ish  me  luck  in  what  I'm  venturing." 

"Good  luck,  Sarah,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  a  yawn. 

Jack  had  returned  at  last.  Too  late  for  a  regular 
meal,  he  fortified  himself  with  some  biscuits  and  a 
whisky-and-soda  in  the  dining-room.  There  his  sister 
Violet  came  to  him,  and  spoke  in  a  low  impressive 
voice. 

"Two  hours  ago  Irene  wanted  to  speak  to  you  on 
the  telephone." 

"Oh,  did  she?" 

"Jack,  don't  answer  as  if  it's  nothing  at  all,"  said 
Violet,  even  more  impressively.  "I  warn  you  that 
everything  is  now  hanging  in  the  balance  between  you 
and  Irene." 

"Indeed!     How  interesting." 

"Listen.     I  answered  the  call,  and  she  spoke  to  me." 

"Yes?" 

"Thinking  it  was  you.  Before  I  could  stop  her  she 
had  betrayed  her  feelings  completely." 

"Well  what  about  it?" 

"She  is  going  to  ring  you  up  at  your  usual  hour — 
eleven  o'clock — and  she  says  it  will  be  the  last  time 
unless  you  give  her  the  answer  she  expects.  So  now, 
there  you  are.  I  do  implore  you,  Jack,  to  stop  play- 
ing the  fool  with  her.  Do  the  right  thing — as  mother 
says — for  all  our  sakes.  Don't  be  cowardly  about 
Amabel.  Make  her  understand.  Tell  her  plainly  any- 
thing else  is  impossible.  Then  she'll  understand." 


180  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"That's  enough  of  it." 

"Yes,  I've  said  my  say.  I  must  go  back  to  the 
drawing-room.  Dolly  will  be  wondering.  Father  was 
odiously  rude  to  him  at  dinner." 

Jack  stood  for  a  long  time  alone  by  the  grand  oak 
buffet.  He  was  -afraid  to  go  into  the  other  room  and 
face  Amabel. 

But  the  time  had  now  come  for  his  quiet  talk  with 
her.  Dolly  and  Hugo  had  gone;  the  family  were  in 
their  rooms  attiring  themselves. 

"Mab,  old  thing,"  he  said  endeavouring  to  speak 
lightly.  "Sit  down  here  and  make  yourself  comfy." 
He  had  found  her  putting  on  her  hat  and  scarf  in  the 
hall,  and  he  pushed  one  of  the  leather  chairs  towards 
her. 

She  stood  looking  at  him  and  did  not  speak. 

"First,  let  me  apologize,"  he  said,  "for  not  being- 
home  earlier.  I  did  say  I  might  be  late,  didn't  I? 
Mab  dear,  you  mustn't  chip  at  me  about  it.  It  wasn't 
my  fault — on  my  honour." 

"On  your  honour !"  said  Amabel,  coming  close  to  him 
and  looking  in  his  eyes.  "But  have  you  any  honour? 
That  was  the  question  I  was  going  to  ask  you.  Only 
now  I  don't  think  it's  worth  while." 

She  was  white  and  trembling,  yet  she  had  spoken 
with  a  force  that  startled  him.  He  had  never  seen 
her  look  like  this. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "if  you  mean  to  take  that  sort 
of  tone,  you'll  make  things  very  difficult  to  discuss. 
You  said  yourself  you  wished  us  to  go  into  the  posi- 
tion." Then  he  took  her  by  the  waist  and  gently 


PROSPERITY  181 

forced  her  to  sit  in  the  low  chair,  he  himself  sitting 
on  an  arm  of  it. 

"Mab  dear,  you  must  believe  this,  whatever  else  you 
think.  I  am  as  fond  of  you  as  I  ever  was.  Every 
bit."  And,  stooping,  he  kissed  her. 

"Oh,  Jack!  Oh,  Jack!"  ajid  she  burst  into  tears. 
"If  you  are  fond  of  me,  then  why  are  you  so  cruel  to 
me?" 

"I'm  not — that  is,  I  don't  want  to  be.  Mab,  stop 
crying.  This  emotion  tears  me  to  pieces — I  can't 
stand  it.  My  nerves  are  all  broken,  as  it  is.  Mab, 
be  quiet — don't  make  a  scene  of  it." 

"Jack,  do  you  see  this?"  she  said  sobbingly,  and 
she  showed  him  the  engagement  ring  on  her  finger. 
"Do  you  remember  when  you  gave  it  to  me — in  Batter- 
sea  Park  ?  We  were  walking  along  by  the  wall — by  the 
river — and  I  was  watching  the  water — all  dark  and 
cruel — and  I  thought  then  that  if  you  ever  failed  me 
I  would  commit  suicide." 

"Mab,  you  mustn't  say  such  dreadful  things."  He 
was  scared  by  th£  intenseness  of  her  words. 

"No,  I  know.  It  was  a  wicked  thought.  But  are 
you  going  to  fail  me?" 

"Of  course  not — that  is,  not  by  ceasing  to  care 
about  you." 

"Remember,  I  have  staked  all  on  my  love  for  you." 

"You're  an  angel,  Mab — you  always  were.  And 
I'm  the  most  miserable  creature  on  earth  when  I'm  not 
making  you  happy.  And  I  haven't  made  you  happy. 
I  know  that  very  well,  of  course."  He  floundered  and 
hesitated ;  then  got  up,  walked  across  the  hall,  and  re- 
turned to  her. 


182  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"If,  if,"  he  stammered,  "if  there  was  what  you  call 
a  failure,  it  would  be  that  Fate  failed  us,  not  7  who 
failed.  Mab,  life  is  so  infernally  complicated  and 
difficult.  You  really  must  try  to  pat  yourself  in  my 
position.  I  confess  I'm  in  trouble — in  a  mess — not 
knowing  where  to  turn."  And,  hurrying  on  with  it, 
he  said  that  he  might  possibly  have  to  suggest,  not  a 
parting,  but  a  temporary  separation,  after  which  they 
would  come  together  again. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  Amabel,  watching  him 
intently. 

Jack  said  he  thought  it  would  be  nice  for  her  to  go 
into  the  country  and  live  in  some  jolly  little  cottage 
where  she  could  wait  for  him  comfortably,  and  where, 
when  he  joined  her,  they  could  be  quite  by  themselves, 
with  no  prying  people  to  interfere  with  them. 

"Still,  I  don't  follow  exactly  what  you  mean." 

"Well,"  said  Jack,  clearing  his  throat,  "I  mean  that 
we  should  accept  the  inevitable  and  settle  down 
quietly." 

"The  country  cottage!"  she  said,  in  a  faint,  dry 
whisper.  "Who  would  pay  for  that?" 

"I  should,  of  course." 

"But  you're  hard  up,  Jack.     Could  you  afford  it?" 

'Jack  explained  that,  although  in  such  hideous 
difficulties  at  the  moment,  he  had  every  reason  to  hope 
funds  would  soon  be  at  his  disposal. 

"Ah!  Now  I  understand."  She  had  sprung  up 
from  the  chair  and  was  engaged  in  some  violent  struggle 
with  her  hands. 

"What  are  you  doing?" 

"I'm  trying  to  get  your  ring  off.     You'll  want  it, 


PROSPERITY  183 

won't  you?  It'll  save  your  buying  a  new  one  far  the 
girl  you're  going  to  marry." 

"Mab — my  dear  Mab!" 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Jack.  I  quite  understand."  Her 
face  was  white,  but  her  eyes  flashed ;  and  as  she  went  on 
speaking,  Jack  for  the  first  time  learned  how  certain 
women  can  be  violent  and  awe-inspiring  without  making 
a  noise.  He  could  not  have  believed  that  his  Amabel 
had  such  hidden  power  in  her.  "But  perhaps  I  was 
slow  to  see  what  you  meant.  Why  did  you  say  it  so 
ambiguously?  This  is  it,  isn't  it?  What  you  mean 
is  that  you're  not  only  false  but  utterly  contemptible. 
I  wouldn't  speak  till  you'd  reached  the  last  baseness — 
till  instead  of  love  you'd  offered  me  money — not  even 
your  own  money,  but  the  money  of  the  other  one — the 
money  of  the  woman  you  intend  to  betray  as  shame- 
fully as  you've  betrayed  me." 

Had  he  meant  all  that?  He  did  not  know  now  what 
he  really  had  meant.  He  was  cowed  by  the  splendid 
anger  of  his  Amabel,  he  was  overwhelmed  by  the  scorn 
that  she  poured  upon  him ;  he  recoiled  from  her  and  did 
not  dare  protest. 

Then  in  a  moment  the  storm  of  her  passion  was 
over;  she  sank  down  into  a  chair  and  wept  again. 

"Oh,  Jack,  do  you  realize  the  millionth  part  of  the 
harm  you've  done  me?  If  I'd  given  myself  to  the  first 
man  who  wanted  me,  I  shouldn't  feel  that  I'd  sunk  any 
lower  that  I  am  now.  You  have  ruined  me  more  utterly 
than  if  you'd  been  wicked  and  brutal  from  the  begin- 
ning. But  you  weren't.  You  cheated  me  out  of  my 
love  at  first  by  being  good  and  honest  and  kind.  Oh, 
Jack!"  And  she  struggled  with  the  ring.  "It  won't 


184  A  LITTLE  MORE 

come  off.  I  can't  get  it  off.  It's  burning  my  flesh — 
marking  it  with  my  disgrace." 

She  was  weak  and  limp,  sobbing  and  shaking  now. 
Jack  feebly  sought  to  console  her. 

"Mab,  I'm  sorry,  dreadfully  sorry.  Yes,  I'm 
ashamed  of  myself." 

"Not  as  much  as  I  am — for  trusting  you." 

"No,  you  mustn't  talk  like  that.  Don't  make  it  too 
hard  for  me.  I'm  at  my  wits'  ends.  Keep  your  ring." 

"No,  no!" 

"Yes,  keep'  it  till  to-morrow,  anyhow.  Give  me  till 
to-morrow  to  think  things  over." 

Presently  she  got  up,  dried  her  eyes,  and  moved 
towards  the  lobby. 

"I  had  better  go,"  she  said,  without  looking  at  him. 

"Yes,  you'd  better  go  now.  But,  Amabel,  I  must  see 
you  to-morrow." 

"No,  this  is  good-bye." 

"It  can't  be — no,  it  shan't  be.  Mab,  be  kind — make 
allowances  for  me — give  me  a  chance  to  j  ustif y  myself," 
and  he  followed  her,  trying  to  detain  her.  "At  least 
say  wh'at  you  yourself  propose  to  do." 

"What  do  I  propose  to  do?"  She  had  turned.  "I 
can't  say.  Look  in  the  newspapers  during  the  next 
few  days  and  see  if  a  woman  has  been  found  drowned. 
If  not,  you'll  know  that  I  have  accepted  the  inevitable 
and  settled  down  quietly." 

Her  manner,  as  she  quoted  his  own  words,  a^s  well  as 
the  substance  of  what  she  said  before  them,  scared  him 
so  much  that  he  spoke  in  piteous  entreaty. 

"Amabel,  don't  try  to  frighten  me  by  saying  such 
terrible  things.  Although  I  know  you  wouldn't  for  a 
moment  contemplate  anything  so  wicked  and  awful, 


PROSPERITY  185 

still  I  can't  let  you  go  while  you  talk  in  such  a 
way." 

"Don't  be  afraid  on  my  account,"  she  said;  "and 
don't  be  anxious  on  your  own.  I  promise  not  to  mo- 
lest or  pester  you." 

"Amabel,  listen.  Nothing  is  decided  yet.  Give,  me 
till  to-morrow,  as  I  ask.  All  this  has  worn  me  out. 
I  love  you — I  swear  it." 

She  went  through  the  lobby  and  he  followed,  plead- 
ing with  her. 

"Till  to-morrow,  Mab.  This  time  to-morrow.Yes, 
we'll  spend  the  evening  together — and  the  afternoon 
too." 

Without  answering,  she  went  swiftly  past  the  lift, 
and  at  the  top  of  the  vast  staircase  he  clutched  at  her 
arm  and  held  her. 

"Promise  me  that  you  won't  do  anything  wild  or 
reckless.  Mab,  my  dear  girl,  have  some  pity  on  me. 
Promise  me.  Promise  me  that  if  you  ever  felt  des- 
perate you'd  warn  me  and  give  me  a  chance " 

She  shook  herself  free  and  went  slowly  down  the 
stairs. 

"Amabel,"  he  called  in  a  low  shaky  voice,  "this  is 
not  good-bye.  Only  till  to-morrow." 

He  stood  looking  down  the  well  of  the  staircase  till 
she  disappeared.  She  had  not  said  another  word;  she 
had  not  once  looked  up  at  him. 

He  went  back  to  the  flat,  wiping  drops  of  perspira- 
tion from  his  forehead,  and  sat  alone  in  the  hall  wrest- 
ling with  himself. 

What  was  he  to  do?  He  loved  Amabel,  and  yet  it 
seemed  that  he  loved  the  world  better.  As  he  sat 
there  haggard,  staring,  it  was  as  though  the  invisible 


186  A  LITTLE  MORE 

forces  of  good  and  evil  were  fighting  for  possession  of 
him. 

Which  was  it  to  be — love  or  money?  Perhaps  the 
die  had  already  been  cast,  perhaps  the  choice  had  al- 
ready gone  from  him  for  ever.  For  a  few  moments 
he  felt  a  cowardly  relief  of  mind  in  thinking  that  this 
was  so.  After  that  dreadful  interview  Amabel  would 
never  forgive  him;  he  had  wounded  her  too  cruelly; 
she  would  be  obdurate  in  the  just  indignation  he  had 
aroused  in  that  hitherto  gentle  breast,  and  no  prayers 
or  tears  of  his  could  soften  her.  She  would  repulse  him 
if  he  grovelled  on  his  knees,  kissing  the  hem  of  her  dress, 
imploring  forgiveness. 

But  no.  He  could  not  thus  deceive  himself.  He 
knew  that  she  would  forgive  him.  She  was  all  love — 
the  love  that  has  no  limits,  that  in  exchange  for  love 
must  pardon  everything.  If  he  went  to  her  to-morrow 
and  said  those  two  words  only,  "Forgive  me,"  she 
would  not  even  make  him  kneel. 

He  changed  his  position  in  the  chair,  and  wiped  his 
forehead  again;  he  was  thinking  now  of  the  wild  des- 
perate impossible  thing  that  she  had  twice  said  to  him. 
Yes,  twice  she  had  spoken  of  suicide.  Her  threats 
shook  him,  filled  him  with  a  superstitious  unreasoning 
horror;  and  yet  he  was  absolutely  certain  that  no  one 
on  earth  could  be  less  likely  to  carry  such  threats  into 
effect.  She  was  too  good,  too  brave.  Indeed  she  her- 
self had  said  at  once  it  was  a  wicked  thought.  Only 
the  mere  uttering  of  such  words  gave  painful  proof  of 
her  trouble  of  mind  at  the  moment. 

He  sat  quite  still,  thinking,  but  feeling  now  emptied 
of  emotion,  worn  out  mentally. 

Then  the  telephone  rang,  and  he  started.     It  was 


PROSPERITY  187 

as  if  Fate  itself  had  called,  upon  him  to  decide.  Which 
was  it  to  be — love  or  money?  He  did  not  stir  from 
his  chair. 

After  a  brief  silence  the  telephone  bell  rang  again, 
and  went  on  ringing.  Still  he  sat  motionless. 

Then  Timesman  appeared.  "The  telephone,  sir. 
Shall  I?" 

"Don't  bother,"  said  Jack,  and  he  rose  slowly,  and 
went  to  the  instrument  himself.  "Timesman,  shut 
that  door  behind  you." 

"Yes,  sir.  May  I  remind  you  it  is  eleven  o'clock? 
The  car  is  ordered  at  eleven-forty,  and  Mr.  Welby  is 
nearly  dressed.  Your  costume  is  laid  out  for  you,  all 
ready." 

"All  right.     Shut  that  door,  I  tell  you." 

It  was  eleven  o'clock ;  it  was  Irene,  of  course.  It 
was  Fate,  using  the  voice  of  Irene  to  call  him  up  and 
make  him  answer. 

"Hullo?"  he  said  quietly,  with  the  receiver  at  his 
ear,  and  he  looked  round  to  make  sure  that  he  was  now 
quite  alone.  "Yes,  I  know  it's  you.  .  .  .  Yes.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  say  the  answer  is  yes.  .  .  .  Glad  you're  pleased." 
And  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  again,  furtively,  guilt- 
ily, as  if  thinking  that  some  invisible  person  had  crept 
into  the  hall  and  was  standing  behind  him.  "Now, 
Irene,  I've  answered  you,  well,  now  you  answer  me. 
If  you  feel  what  you  say,  are  you  prepared  to  do  a 
bolt,  get  married  before  the  registrar,  and  go  right 
away  till  all  the  fuss  has  blown  over?  .  .  .  Very  good. 
Then  I'm  your  man."  And  there  was  a  pause  while 
he  stood  merely  listening.  "What's  that?"  And  he 
forced  himself  to  speak  laughingly.  "No,  I  promise 
not  to  flirt  with  anybody  at  the  ball.  .  .  .  Yes,  I'll 


188  A  LITTLE  MORE 

remember.  .  .  .  Just  so."  Once  more  he  looked  over 
his  shoulder.  "Yes,  Irene,  I  belong  to  you  now.  .  .  . 
Quite  right.  Don't  you  let  me  forget  it,"  and  he 
laughed  harshly.  "Good-night.  Pleasant  dreams." 

Then  he  went  to  put  on  his  fancy  dress.  As 
Timesman  s&id,  it  was  all  ready  for  him — black  satin 
knickerbockers  and  silk  stockings,  white  ruff,  little 
skull  cap,  spangles  and  gold — such  a  rich  and  glitter- 
ing costume  as  Folly  •personified  might  be  proud  to 
dance  in. 


FOR  twenty  minutes  the  flat  had  been  as  quiet 
as  if  the  whole  family  had  gone  to  bed  and 
were  sleeping  peacefully;  then  the  commotion 
began. 

Suddenly  Timesman  and  Edward  were  confronted 
with  still  another  importunate  visitor,  who,  ignoring 
all  protests,  forced  his  entrance  into  the  hall. 

It  was  Mr.  Rolls,  the  solicitor,  with  grave,  troubled 
face  and  travel-stained  garments-,  talking  breathlessly 
but  authoritatively. 

"Tell  your  master  to  come  to  me  at  once,  and  by 
himself.  I  want  to  speak  to  him  in  private,  and " 

Mr.  Rolls  did  not  continue,  for  at  that  moment  there 
came  a  tremendous  shouting  from  the  corridor. 

Mr.  Rolls  pulled  out  his  eye-glass  by  the  black 
ribbon,  fixed  the  glass  in  his  eye,  and  stared  at  the  door 
from  which  the  uproar  issued.  "Good  gracious !"  he 
said.  "What  is  happening?" 

What  had  happened  so  far  was  this.  Mr.  Welby 
had  just  received  a  great  shock.  Now  completely 
garbed  in  the  sumptuous  robes  of  a  Chinese  mandarin, 
he  stood  outside  his  dressing-room,  shaking  the  volu- 
minous folds  of  rich  silk,  coloured  cambric,  and  choice 
embroidery,  adjusting  the  pigtails,  preening  himself, 
when  suddenly  Primrose,  attired  as  a  naiad,  darted 
across  the  corridor  from  one  room  to  another. 

"Who?     Why?     What?"  said  Mr.  Welby. 

"A  surprise  for  you,"  said  Primrose  impudently, 

189 


190  A  LITTLE  MORE 

laughing  at  him  from  the  threshold  of  her  room. 
"Your  idea  was  very  nice,  daddy — but  this  is  my  idea," 
and  she  capered,  and  lifted  her  bare  arms  with  green 
weeds  hanging  from  them. 

Then  it  was  that  Mr.  Welby  gave  his  loud  shout  of 
anger. 

He  said  he  had  never  seen  anything  more  immodest 
in  his  life.  "No,  I  put  my  foot  down.  Certainly 
not,"  and  he  really  bellowed  at  her.  "Not  for  a 
moment  will  I  allow  it.  Showing  your  legs !" 

"Why  shouldn't  I?"  said  Primrose.  "I'm  not 
ashamed  of  them." 

"Then  you  ought  to  be."  He  had  seized  her  by 
the  wrist  and  was  dragging  her  along  the  corridor. 
"Where's  your  mother?  I  say,  I'll  not  allow  you  to  go 
to  the  ball  like  this." 

"Father,  don't  be  absurd,"  said  Primrose,  wriggling 
in  his  grasp.  "Stop  it.  You're  hurting  me." 

"I  tell  you,  miss,  you'll  not  go  to  the  ball." 

And  he  dragged  her  out  into  the  hall,  where  Mr. 
Rolls  stood  waiting.  Mr.  Rolls  was  so  much  startled 
that  the  eye-glass  fell  from  his  eye.  Truly  they  were 
an  astounding  pair — Mr.  Welby,  red-faced,  enormous, 
in  his  rich  tunic  and  wide  sleeves ;  and  Primrose,  so 
small  and  active,  agitating  her  little  green  legs  and  her 
naked  shoulders  as  she  writhed  and  twisted,  struggling 
to  free  herself.  And  next  moment  Mrs.  Welby  with 
powdered  wig,  extended  skirts,  and  a  huge  fan,  came 
to  join  them,  followed  immediately  by  her  elder 
daughter  in  a  short  bright  violet  skirt,  with  violet 
ribbons,  a  gold  basket-work  tray,  and  artificial  flowers 
tumbling. 

"Oh,    dear,   oh,   dear!"    cried  Mrs.    Welby.     "Why 


PROSPERITY  191 

will  you  do  things  to  make  your  father  so  angry — and 
without  consulting  anybody?" 

"Not  one  word  to  me,"  said  Violet  angrily.  "It  is 
mean  of  her.  She  just  wanted  to  cut  me  out.  Oh, 
how  mean,  Prim !" 

The  preposterous  group  were  so  hotly  engaged  that 
they  ignored  Mr.  Rolls,  could  not  perhaps  even  see  him. 

"Daddy,  are  you  cracked?"  cried  Primrose  shrilly. 
"Mother,  stop  him.  Pull  him  away." 

"Father,  don't  be  rough  to  her." 

Mr.  Welby  released  Primrose,  and,  turning  to  Mrs. 
Welby,  bellowed  at  her. 

"She'll  not  go  to  the  ball." 

Then  at  last  Mr.  Rolls  secured  their  notice. 

"Mr.  Welby,  I  don't  think  any  of  you  will  go  to  the 
ball,"  he  said  gravely. 

"What's  this?  Oh,  you,  Rolls?  At  this  time  o* 
night?" 

"Yes,  at  this  time  of  night.  That  is  significant, 
is  it  not?"  and  Mr.  Rolls  made  a  solemn  purposeful 
pause.  "As  I  was  saying — no,  I  fear  you'll  none  of 
you  have  any  heart  for — ah — gaiety,  after  the  news 
that  it  is  my  painful  duty  to  break  to  you.  .  .  .  Mr. 
Welby,  can  you  and  I  be  alone?" 

Timesman  and  Edward  were  sent  away,  but  the 
others  refused  to  leave  the  hall.  Mr.  Rolls  had 
frightened  them  all;  they  stood  round  him,  staring 
at  him,  and  as  he  unfolded  his  tale  of  disaster  they  sat 
down  one  after  another,  as  if  literally  their  legs  had 
been  knocked  from  under  them. 

"I  don't  believe  it."  Mrs.  Welby  and  her  two 
daughters  each  said  it  in  turn.  "No,  I  can't,  I  won't 
believe  it." 


192  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Yet  they  did  believe  it  really.  The  dust  on  Mr. 
Rolls's  clothes,  the  mournful  nodding  of  his  head,  his 
gloomy  voice,  his  sympathetic  pauses — -everything 
about  him  carried  conviction  to  them. 

"Stop,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  his  hand  on  his  fore- 
head. "Give  me  time.  Say  all  that  again.  I'm  not 
taking  it  in." 

Mr.  Rolls  sadly  repeated  the  story.  It  was  disaster 
— irremediable  disaster.  The  imminence  o-f  war  be- 
tween Austria  and  Servia  had  hastened  the  catastrophe ; 
their  sulphur  mines  had,  so  to  speak,  gone  up  in  smoke ; 
the  wealth  of  their  late  cousin  had  vanished  utterly. 
It  had  indeed  been  going  very  fast  all  this  time,  but 
the  now  defaulting  manager,  Mr.  Bernstein,  had  con- 
cealed the  true  state  of  affairs  as  long  as  it  was  possible 
to  do  so. 

"That  Bernstein — what's  that?"  said  Mr.  Welby,  in 
a  thick  dull  voice.  "But  I  trusted  that  fellow.  He 
was  the  one  I  trusted,  Bernstein  was." 

"Exactly,"  said  Mr.  Rolls.  But,  alas,  the  scoundrel 
was  quite  untrustworthy.  His  fraudulent  deceptions 
and  wicked  practices  must  have  already  been  in  full 
swing  during  the  lifetime  of  their  late  lamented  relative, 
and  one  might  now  almost  say,  when  one  learned  the 
true  facts,  that  the  whole  splendid  inheritance  was 
nothing  but  a  mockery  or  hollow  sham. 

"But  you — you,  Rolls — who  was  paid  by  me  to  look; 
after  tha.t  blackguard — what  'ave  you  been  at?" 

Mr.  Rolls  had  done*  a  great  deal,  as  he  explained,  but 
unfortunately  nothing  that  could  now  avert  the  crash. 
For  a  long  time  he  had  nourished  suspicions ;  but  these 
he  had  naturally  not  spoken  of  since  they  were  only 


PROSPERITY  193 

suspicions.  The  moment  that  he  had  taken  real  alarm 
— and  that  was  very  soon  after  Bernstein  ran  away — 
he  had  himself  gone  to  Vienna.  Unfortunately  he  had 
not  found  the  defaulter  in  Vienna,  and  had  therefore 
come  straight  back  to  report  to  Mr.  Welby.  However, 
if  he  had  unearthed  Bernstein,  it  would  not  have  made 
any  difference  to  the  regrettable  facts.  What  more — 
he  seemed  to  ask — could  have  been  done  by  an  eminently 
respectable  solicitor  of  mature  age,  with  fat  cheeks, 
suave  manners,  and  a  black  ribbon  to  his  eye-glass? 

But  Mr.  Welby  was  unable  for  a  little  while  to  take 
this  view.  He  gave  free  vent  to  his  passion,  storming 
at  Mr.  Rolls,  raving  at  him.  He  vowed  that  if  the 
money  had  gone  Mr.  Rolls  was  as  big  a  rascal  as  Bern- 
stein. He  swore  that  he  would  not  allow  either  himself 
or  his  family  to  be  cheated.  He  held  Rolls  responsible 
and  would  get  the  money  back  again,  out  of  Rolls  and 
all  the  other  cheats. 

Then  he  sat  down  again,  and  wept  and  brandished 
his  arms  in  impotent  grief  and  fury. 

"Oh,  it's  too  bad.     It's  too  bad.     It's  too  wicked." 

"My  dear  Mr.  Welby,"  said  Rolls,  himself  visibly 
affected.  "I  think  nothing  of  the  strong  terms  you 
have  employed.  I  simply  wash  them  from  my  mind. 
Truly  both  you  and  your  family  have  my  deepest 
sympathy." 

And  indeed  nothing  could  be  more  sad  and  pitiful. 
Violet,  with  her  tray  of  flowers  clutched  upon  her  knees, 
sat  shaking  and  glaring;  Primrose  contorted  herself, 
whimpering;  Mrs.  Welby  sobbed  and  laughed  hysteric- 
ally; while  Mr.  Rolls  continued  to  murmur  his 
sympathy. 


194  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Then  after  a  little  time,  Mr.  Welby  pulled  himself 
together  and  succeeded  in  bearing  up  against  the  dis- 
aster with  real  dignity. 

"The  blow  falls  heavy,  Rolls — yes,  it  does;  but  it's 
the  first  force  of  it  that  stuns."  As  he  spoke,  he 
began  to  walk  about  the  hall.  "Mother,  you  and  I 
must  set  the  example.  We  mustn't  give  way.  Violet 
— Primrose  dear — we  need  our  full  strength.  You 
must  help  us,  my  dears,  not  take  our  strength  from 
us" ;  and  he  moved  to  and  fro,  glancing  at  the  panelled 
walls,  the  carving,  and  the  leather.  "Things  mayn't 
be  quite  so  bad  as  they  seem." 

Mr.  Rolls  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"Suppose  we  are  to  drop  back  out  of  all  this,"  Mr. 
Welby  continued,  with  another  glance  at  his  splendid 
surroundings;  "well,  at  the  worst,  we've  'ad  our  taste 
of  it — we've  enjoyed  what  it  gave — we've  learnt  the 
experience."  And  as  he  went  on  he  rose  steadily  to 
a  great  height.  "Come.  If  we  are  to  take  this  knock, 
let's  face  it."  He  had  put  aside  his  queer  Chinese  hat 
with  the  pigtail  attached,  and  as  he  ran  his  hand 
through  his  grey  hair  he  looked  more  than  dignified, 
majestic.  "If  it's  got  to  be,  its  got  to  be.  There've 
been  times  this  last  month  when  I've  felt  the  emptiness. 
Mother,  «/ow've  felt  it  too.  Prim,  my  dear  child — 
Violet  too — show  your  spirit.  Mother,  remember 
what  you  and  I  used  to  say.  If  one  has  enough, 
that's  sufficient.  Well,  we're  called  to  act  up  to  it  now. 
Let's  do  it  without  howling.  All  this  that  we're  com- 
pelled to  renounce,  well,  I  say  let  it  go;  and  we've  got 
to  drop  back  and  be  content  with  the  old  humdrum 
life." 


PROSPERITY  195 

"But  at  jour  age,"  said  Mr.  Rolls,  admiringly  and 
pityingly,  "it  is  hard  to  begin  life  again." 

"Fortunately  I  possess  a  competence  of  my  own," 
said  Mr.  Welby,  with  great  dignity ;  "so  life  isn't  going 
to  be  harder  than  what  we  can  bear." 

"Mr.  Welby,  you  don't  yet  understand." 

"I  have  private  means — I  mean,  quite  apart  from 
the  money  I  came  into.  And  I  say,  thank  heaven  that 
I  have  got  it." 

"My  poor  friend!"  And  with  the  utmost  com- 
miseration Mr.  Rolls  told  him  this  was  gone  with  the 
rest.  By  reason  of  Bernstein's  machinations  and  his 
blind  faith  in  that  wretch,  he  had  allowed  his  liabilites 
to  become  almost  limitless. 

"Stop,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  beginning  to  tremble  all 
over  his  big  frame.  "I'm  speaking  of  my  own  little 
nest-egg,  outside  the  mining  business  altogether.  My 
savings.  What  I'd  worked  for  and  put  by.  They 
can't  take  that." 

"They'll  take  your  last  penny,"  said  Mr.  Rolls 
mournfully.  "They'll  take  everything,  except  the 
clothes  you  stand  up  in.  I  don't  mean  what  you  are 
wearing  at  this  moment,  but  your  ordinary  clothes." 

"Is  that  the  law?" 

"I  fear  so." 

Then  Mr.  Welby  gave  way  to  tragic  despair,  raving, 
groaning,  tearing  at  his  philosopher's  robe.  Mrs. 
Welby  gasped  and  sobbed;  sounds  of  bitter  woe  and 
lamentation  filled  the  flat. 

While  they  were  still  bewailing,  but  a  little  less 
loudly,  Jack  came  in  as  a  gorgeous  Pierrot;  with  the 
little  skull  cap  set  jauntily  to  the  back  of  his  head 


196  A  LITTLE  MORE 

and  his  spangles  flashing  like  golden  fire  on  the  black 
satin.  But  he  looked  scared,  and  asked  what  had  so 
distressed  them  all. 

"Oh,  Jack,"  said  his  mother,  going  to  him.  "Oh, 
my  unhappy  boy,  summon  all  your  courage.  An 
appalling  blow !  Something  too  dreadful  has 
occurred." 

Jack  staggered  back  from  her,  terror-stricken.  If 
he  had  whitened  his  face  with  paint  he  could  not  have 
made  it  whiter,  and  it  twitched  spasmodically  as  he 
leaned  against  the  panelled  wall  as  though  for  support. 

"Not — not  Amabel !"  he  said  in  a  whisper. 

"We  are  ruined,"  cried  Mrs.  Welby,  not  even  hear- 
ing what  he  had  said. 

"Paupers,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "Not  a  penny  in  the 
wide  world.  All  gone — any  own  with  the  rest." 

Jack  sank  into  a  chair  and  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands.  "Thank  God,"  he  murmured  to  himself.  "Oh, 
thank  God — not  that"  Under  the  deadly  fear  that 
his  mother's  first  words  had  aroused,  his  heart  had 
almost  stopped  beating.  Even  now,  in  the  overwhelm- 
ing relief  at  learning  that  the  fear  had  been  baseless, 
he  felt  sick  and  faint  from  the  stress  of  it. 

He  sat  there,  taking  no  notice  of  the  others,  not 
knowing  what  was  going  on,  while  Mr.  Welby  gave 
orders  to  Timesman,  sent  the  car  away,  and  so  forth. 

They  were  all  of  them  ruined.  What  did  it  matter? 
Amabel  was  alive  and  safe. 

Then  Timesman  gave  him  a  letter  that  had  just 
been  brought  up  by  the  porter.  The  envelope  was 
addressed  in  Amabel's  handwriting,  and  as  Jack  tore 
it  open  her  engagement  ring  fell  out  and  rolled  across 
the  parquet  floor.  Beyond  the  ring,  the  envelope  con- 


PROSPERITY  197 

taind  a  sheet  of  note-paper  with  only  one  word  on  it. 
Only  the  one  word — "Good-bye." 

And  the  fear  returned  to  him,  modified  but  as  deadly, 
making  him  leap  to  his  feet,  sweeping  him  through  the 
hall  and  out  into  the  lobby.  If  she  had  not  done  it 
yet,  she  was  going  to  do  it.  This  was  what  she  meant 
by  the  ring  and  the  word.  This  was  her  warning. 
He  had  prayed  that,  if  she  ever  meant  to  do  it,  she 
should  warn  him  first.  She  had  warned  him.  She 
would  do  it,  if  he  did  not  get  to  her  and  prevent  her. 
She  would  do  it  now,  in  a  minute's  time,  if  all  was  not 
yet  over. 

The  ring,  the  word!  "Promise  you'll  warn  me." 
A  hat,  a  coat!  He  was  half  mad  with  fear  as  he 
seized  one  of  his  father's  Homberg  hats  and  crushed  it 
down  on  the  black  skull  cap.  Snatching  wildly  at  a 
pile  of  garments  on  a  side  table,  he  pulled  away  one 
of  Mr.  Welby's  light  grey  over-coats  to  cover  his  black 
silk  and  gold  spangles.  Then  he  dashed  down  the 
staircase,  flight  after  flight,  and  out  of  the  building. 

Without  even  stopping  it,  he  sprang  into  a  taxicab 
and  told  the  man  to  drive  like  hell  to  Battersea  Park. 

Panic  fear  possessed  him,  and  yet  all  his  thoughts 
seemed  to  him  absolutely  clear  and  logical.  Remem- 
bering what  she  had  said  about  Battersea  Park,  he 
felt  certain  that  it  was  there  and  nowhere  else  that 
she  would  go.  She  would  walk  along  that  path  by 
the  water,  to  the  spot  where  she  had  thought  of  suicide 
at  the  moment  when  he  put  the  ring  on  her  finger ;  and 
in  imagination  he  could  see  her  painfully  clambering 
over  the  low  iron  rails,  standing  for  a  moment  on  the 
wall,  and  then,  perhaps  with  his  name  on  her  lips, 


198  A  LITTLE  MORE 

letting  herself  drop  into  "the  dark  cruel  water."  "Oh, 
Jack!"  The  name  of  her  murderer — for  it  would  be 
he  who  had  killed  her,  as  surely  as  if  he  had  thrown 
her  into  the  water  himself. 

"Faster,"  he  shouted  frantically  to  the  man ;  "drive 
faster."  The  cab  was  spinning  through  Lower  Sloane 
Street,  and  Jack  with  head  and  shoulders  out  of  the 
window  peered  at  each  woman's  figure  that  they 
passed.  "Get  on.  Go  faster." 

"If  I  go  any  faster,"  grumbled  the  driver,  "I  shall 
get  run  in  or  there'll  be  an  accident;  then  we  shan't 
get  there  at  all."  The  driver  was  not  pleased  with  this 
fare,  in  spite  of  the  gentleman's  promise  of  gold. 

"Get  on,  I  tell  you." 

They  had  reached  the  bridge  now,  and  Jack  held 
the  cab  door  open.  He  could  see  the  trees  of  the  park, 
sombre  masses  of  foliage,  and  lamplight  on  the  water 
as  it  lapped  against  the  stone  wall.  And  again  he  saw 
her  in  imagination.  She  had  just  entered  the  park, 
she  was  moving  swiftly  away  from  him  along  the  path. 
Oh,  if  he  could  only  be  in  time. 

He  was  frenzied,  like  a  madman,  and  yet  all  the 
while  he  was  really  coming  to  his  senses.  He  knew 
right  from  wrong  now.  He  understood  for  the  first 
time  the  stupidity  as  well  as  the  baseness  of  his  recent 
conduct.  It  was  at  once  a  hot  unreasoning  agony  and 
a  deadly  cold  awakening  for  Jack.  He  felt  like  a 
somnambulist  who  wakes  and  learns  of  crimes  that  he 
has  committed  in  his  sleep.  All  the  money  and  the 
longing  for  money  seemed  now  nothing,  or  rather  a 
confused  part  of  the  ugly  dream  that  was  ending 
with  these  horrible  realities. 

Thus  he  felt  now  in  his  great  love  and  dread.     If 


PROSPERITY  199 

only  it  was  not  too  late.  Nothing  on  earth  mattered! 
but  Amabel.  If  only  he  could  find  her  alive,  hold  her 
safe  in  his  arms,  he  would  work  for  her,  die  for  her, 
never  let  her  go. 

He  left  the  cab  at  the  far  end  of  the  bridge  while  it 
was  still  moving,  and  rushed  down  to  the  park  gates. 

The  park  gates  were  shut,  of  course.  The  park  is 
closed  every  night.  He  had  not  thought  of  this.  But 
Amabel,  he  told  himself,  would  not  have  thought  of  it 
either.  Darting  to  and  fro,  he  made  sure  that  there 
was  not  any  small  side  gate  still  open,  or  even  an 
aperture  anywhere  large  enough  to  permit  of  Amabel's 
getting  through.  No.  Then  the  thought  came  to  him 
that  Amabel,  frustrated  in  her  original  intention, 
might  throw  herself  from  the  bridge  itself.  Perhaps 
he  had  passed  her  unobserved  on  the  bridge  a  minute 
ago;  she  might  well  have  been  there,  hidden  from  him 
by  the  huge  structures  that  carried  the  suspension 
chains,  or  lurking  in  some  dark  shadow. 

He  ran  back  to  the  bridge,  and  searched  hither  and 
thither ;  stopping  to  gaze  at  the  sinister  flood,  dodging 
behind  slow-moving  wagons,  and  in  front  of  swiftly 
rattling  omnibuses.  And  another  thought  presented 
itself.  This  traffic  was  sufficient  to  have  driven  her 
further,  and  there  were  too  many  pedestrians  about — • 
too  much  lamplight.  She  would  have  re-crossed  the 
bridge,  and  gone  down  to  the  embankment;  gone  down 
to  the  solitude  and  obscurity  of  the  embankment. 
That  was  it.  She  would  go  along  the  embankment, 
under  the  trees,  past  those  dark  houses,  till  she  got  to 
a  spot  opposite  the  point  she  had  first  aimed  at.  She 
would  stand  there  looking  across  the  river  to  the  park 
— to  where  he  had  plighted  his  faith.  And  it  would  be 


200  A  LITTLE  MORE 

easier — no  railings.  She  would  slide  over  the  smooth 
granite.  Perhaps  hang  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
without  a  cry,  be  gone. 

He  ran  off  the  bridge  down  to  the  embankment,  and, 
facing  Chelsea,  explored  its  stretching  length,  stopping 
here  and  there  to  recover  his  breath,  and  stare  over  the 
parapet,  shouting  wild  questions  to  the  few  loiterers 
that  he  encountered.  No  one  answered  him.  People 
shuffled  away  as  if  afraid,  He  ran  on,  staring  towards 
the  lights  of  the  other  bridge,  dreading  every  moment 
to  come  upon  a  crowd,  to  hear  shouts,  to  see  some  sign 
of  trouble.  He  thought  now  it  was  just  as  likely  that 
she  would  have  come  to  this  other  bridge  as  to  the  one 
he  had  left,  for  the  bridges  were  about  equally  distant 
from  that  spot  which  had  been  drawing  her.  No. 
This  bridge  straight  ahead  of  him  was  the  one  that  she 
would  go  to.  This  one — Albert  Bridge — was  the  one, 
because  it  was  nearer  to  where  she  lived.  Those 
lodgings  in  the  side  street ! 

He  ran  desperately  till  he  reached  the  second  bridge, 
and  on  it  he  behaved  more  and  more  like  a  madman. 
Throughout,  his  actions  had  been  very  unusual,  and  it 
was  not  therefore  strange  that  the  taxicab  driver  felt 
troubled  in  mind.  He  had  deserted  the  cab  without  a 
word  of  explanation,  but  the  cab  followed  him  over 
the  first  bridge  and  all  along  the  embankment.  The 
cabman  did  not  mean  to  let  him  out  of  his  sight  if  he 
could  help  it,  and  he  shouted  now,  as  he  came  level 
again : 

"Look  here,  sir,  I  can't  carry  on  like  this.  I  don't 
understand  it.  You  pay  me,  please,  and  let  me  go." 

"No,"  shouted  Jack.  "I  shall  want  you  again. 
Stay  where  you  are.  I  will  come  back  to  you." 


PROSPERITY  201 

"I  ain't  so  sure  of  that,"  said  the  driver,  and  the 
cab  followed  Jack  across  the  bridge  and  down  to  the 
other  gates  of  the  park. 

Here  a  new  thought  had  come  to  Jack.  Trying  to 
calculate  time,  he  thought  that  perhaps  he  was  ahead 
of  Amabel,  instead  of  behind  her.  She  would  go  first 
of  all  to  her  lodgings;  she  would  have  her  poor  little 
arrangements  to  make — to  tidy  her  room — to  settle 
accounts  with  her  landlady.  His  heart  leaped  with 
hope.  He  was  ahead  of  her.  He  would  go  to  her 
lodgings,  and,  please  Heaven,  find  her  there.  He 
turned  and  ran  again. 

Then  the  cab  driver  shouted  once  more.  "Hi! 
You  stop."  And  he  hastily  turned  his  cab. 

"What,  are  you  there?"  cried  Jack.  "Why  the 
devil  didn't  you  wait  where  I  told  you?  I  might  have 
missed  you." 

"Yes,  I  think  you  might,"  growled  the  driver;  and 
a  ridiculous  brain-inflaming  altercation  began.  Jack 
wanted  to  get  into  the  cab  and  drive  like  the  wind 
to  those  lodgings  at  Chelsea ;  and  the  driver  wanted  to 
be  paid  before  he  undertook  any  more  of  it.  The 
frenzy  of  Jack  merely  confirmed  his  suspicions. 

"You  pay  me  off.     I've  had  enough  of  it." 

"I'll  give  you  a  sovereign  on  account.  Confound 
you!"  said  Jack,  releasing  the  handle  of  the  door  in 
order  to  get  at  his  money.  He  flung  open  his  over- 
coat, and  his  hand  dived  towards  a  trousers  pocket, 
which,  unfortunately,  did  not  exist.  His  hand  merely 
lost  itself  in  the  loose  silken  folds  of  his  Pierrot  knicker- 
bockers. He  remembered  then  that  he  was  in  fancy 
dress,  of  course.  He  had  not  a  penny  about  him. 

"My    goodness!"    said    the    cabman,    reversing    his 


202  A  LITTLE  MORE 

engine,  and  backing  away  with  the  cab.  The  open 
coat  had  shown  him  in  a  flash  Jack's  gold  spangles  and 
white  ruff. 

"I'll  pay  you  to-morrow,"  Jack  was  saying  wildly. 
"I'll  give  you  my  address.  I  live  at  Knight sbridge. 
That  is — I  used  to.  Yes." 

"You  don't  get  into  this  cab,"  said  the  driver,  skil- 
fully spurting  forward.  "No,  not  unless  it's  for  me 
to  take  you  to  the  nearest  police  station,"  and  he 
dodged  Jack,  making  the  cab  spurt  forward,  and  back- 
ing and  dodging  afterwards  in  a  masterly  fashion. 
"You  come  with  me  to  the  police." 

"Damn  you,  I  can't  wait !"  shouted  Jack,  and  he 
started  running  across  the  bridge. 

The  cab  followed  him  cautiously,  and  was  just 
behind  him  when  he  reached  the  further  shore.  Here 
Jack  jumped  upon  the  footboard  of  a  belated  omnibus, 
which  was  going  more  or  less  in  the  right  direction. 
Unluckily,  the  conductor  told  him  to  get  inside  or  on 
top;  but  Jack  could  do  neither,  because  he  was  search- 
ing the  pavement  with  anxious  eyes.  The  conductor 
was  angry,  and  angrier  still  when,  the  'bus  swerving 
from  the  right  direction,  Jack  leaped  off  the  foot- 
board without  paying  his  fare.  The  conductor 
stopped  the  'bus,  and  shouted  after  Jack  indignantly, 
and  the  cab,  which  had  followed  the  'bus,  swept  by 
with  its  driver  yelling  unintelligible  information.  Jack 
ran  up  one  street  and  down  another.  As  he  crossed 
King's  Road  and  turned  right-handed,  the  following 
cab  nearly  lost  him.  Jack  ran  on,  his  overcoat  flying 
wide,  his  spangles  shining.  Near  Chelsea  Parish 
Church  he  turned  left-handed,  and  saw  a  girl  and  a 
man  standing  outside  a  house  not  so  very  far  ahead  of 


PROSPERITY  203 

him.  The  taxicab  was  at  least  two  hundred  yards 
behind  him.  The  driver  had  stopped,  calling  to  a 
policeman,  inviting  him  to  get  upon  the  step.  The 
policeman  did  so,  and  the  taxi  came  on  at  full  speed. 

On  leaving  the  Knightsbridge  flat  Amabel  walked 
slowly  away,  feeling  mentally  and  physically  exhausted. 
It  was  all  over,  then,  she  thought  dully.  In  the  game 
of  life  she  had  staked  everything,  and  lost. 

She  thought  of  that  other  girl,  the  red-haired  super- 
cilious creature,  who  was  her  successful  rival;  and  she 
thought  of  Jack's  cruelty  and  wickedness.  Of  his 
cowardice  too — saying  that  nothing  was  yet  decided, 
craving  for  a  further  interview,  imploring  pity.  Pity 
for  him! 

With  these  thoughts  there  mingled  a  sense  of  some 
duty  of  hers  as  yet  unperformed.  It  was  all  over,  but 
still  there  was  something  that  she  herself  had  to  do  in 
the  matter.  What  was  it  ? 

The  ring!  Yes,  of  course.  Half-way  home  she  re- 
membered, and  going  into  a  cheap  restaurant  where 
she  sometimes  took  her  scanty  meals,  she  asked  for  an 
envelope  and  note-paper.  In  a  dismal  dark  little 
washing-place,  after  bathing  her  hand  in  cold  water 
and  soaping  it  profusely,  she  struggled  to  pull  off  the 
ring.  She  succeeded  at  last. 

Then  she  went  back  to  Knightsbridge  and  gave  her 
letter  to  the  porter  at  the  flat,  begging  him  to  take  it, 
up  to  Jack  immediately. 

Then  she  turned  homeward  again. 

She  had  reached  Chelsea  and  her  own  street  when  she 
came  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Lyme.  He  was  hardy 
and  truculent  to-night.  He  said  he  had  heard  at  her 


204  A  LITTLE  MORE 

lodgings  that  she  was  out  and  had  been  lying  in  wait 
for  her  since  half-past  ten,  and  now  it  was  past  twelve. 
He  asked  her  what  she  meant  by  it.  She  wouldn't  go 
out  with  him,  oh,  no,  but  she  went  out  with  other  people 
— and  stayed  out,  to  these  outrageous  hours. 

And  walking  along  the  street  by  her  side,  he  pestered 
her  more  abominably  than  he  had  ever  done.  Then,  as 
they  stood  by  the  lamp-post  in  front  of  the  lodgings, 
the  lamplight  showed  him  her  face  and  he  understood 
that  she  was  suffering  from  a  distress  greater  than 
could  possibly  be  inflicted  by  his  importunities.  Per- 
haps this  made  him  think  that  the  chance  he  longed  for 
had  come  at  last. 

"Amabel,"  he  said,  with  a  rapid  change  of  tone. 
"Amabel,  I  have  suspected  before;  but  now  I  know." 
He  had  taken  possession  of  her  hands,  and  he  continued 
to  speak  tenderly.  "Yes,  I  know  everything — and  I 
don't  mind.  Some  brute  of  a  man  has  been  treating 
you  badly.  I'll  make  it  up  to  you.  Only  trust  me, 
and  I'll  make  you  forget.  Trust  me,  and  you  shall 
never  regret  it." 

"Let  me  go."  Amabel  was  trying  to  escape  to  the 
steps  of  the  house,  and  he  was  trying  to  clasp  her  in 
his  arms. 

"Don't  go  into  that  dingy  hole,  where  you'll  be 
miserable  all  by  yourself,"  Lyme  pleaded.  "Come 
straight  away — to  an  hotel.  I'll  get  you  lovely  rooms. 
You  can  send  for  your  things  to-morrow.  But  of 
course  I'll  buy  you  beautiful  new  frocks — and  hats — and 
all  you  fancy." 

"Oh,  let  me  go,"  said  Amabel,  struggling.  "Let  me 
go,  or  I'll  cry  for  help";  and  next  moment  she  did 
indeed  utter  a  faint  cry. 


PROSPERITY  205 

"Hush,"  said  Mr.  Lyme,  releasing  her.  "There's 
somebody  coining." 

Somebody  was  coming,  at  a  run — a  fantastic  im- 
possible figure.  It  was  calling,  "Amabel,  Amabel"; 
it  threw  off  its  loose  wrapper  as  it  ran ;  it  sprang  into 
the  lamplight,  fierce  and  wild,  all  glittering. 

Perhaps  the  strangeness,  the  incredibleness  of  its 
aspect  really  frightened  Mr.  Lyme.  At  any  rate  he 
put  up  no  defence  worth  mentioning.  Jack's  first  blow 
sent  his  silk  hat  flying,  and  the  second  knocked  him 
down. 

"You  blackguard,"  he  said,  getting  up;  and  Jack! 
knocked  him  down  again. 

It  all  took  place  with  lightning  rapidity.  Just  as 
Mr.  Lyme  went  down  again  the  fatal  taxi  had  arrived  ; 
and  the  policeman  and  the  driver  were  both  at  Jack 
together.  Jack  struck  the  policeman,  giving  him  a 
tremendous  upper-cut,  and  the  helmet  flew  as  if  it 
had  been  as  light  a  thing  as  Mr.  Lyme's  topper. 

But  the  fighters  were  surrounded.  People  had  arisen 
out  of  the  earth,  loafers,  tapsters,  ostlers,  what  not, 
a  mob.  Jack  was  fighting  against  heavy  odds.  It 
looked  like  a  football  scrimmage,  with  the  ground  in- 
vaded by  an  unruly  crowd;  and  the  policeman,  helmet- 
less,  bleeding,  was  like  a  maltreated  referee  as  he 
strenuously  blew  his  whistle. 

Jack  was  soon  overpowered,  and  borne  away ;  shout- 
ing to  Amabel  while  they  dragged  him  along. 

"Amabel,  it's  all  right.  He  can't  hurt  you  now. 
He'll  go  home  to  bed.  I  love  you — my  darling.  No 
one  else  in  the  world.  Don't  be  afraid — trust  me — 
keep  faith  in  me." 


PART  THREE 


ADVERSITY 


CHAPTER  I 

MORE  than  three  years  had  passed.  It  was 
the  winter  of  1917-18,  a  dull  cold  day,  and 
men  standing  outside  a  newly  opened  re- 
cruiting office  in  the  north  of  London  slapped  their 
chests  and  shuffled  their  feet  to  keep  themselves  warm 
while  they  waited  for  admittance.  A  sergeant  in  uni- 
form let  them  into  the  building  six  at  a  time;  they 
were  sent  through  a  large  bare  room  to  a  table  where 
a  pallid  officer  was  seated  with  two  or  three  civilians; 
and,  if  accepted,  they  were  taken  out  through  another 
door  to  be  examined  at  once  by  a  doctor. 

"You  understand,  this  is  the  Labour  Corps,"  re- 
peated the  officer,  again  and  again.  "You'll  be  trained 
and  sent  out  in  battalions.  You  won't  be  called  on  to 
fight,  but  you'll  be  soldiers — regular  soldiers,  you 
know — subject  to  a  soldier's  discipline.  You've  been 
informed  as  to  pay,  allowances,  and  other  conditions. 
Very  good.  Can  you  use  a  pick  and  shovel?" 

"I  did  ought  to,"  replied  a  sturdy  block  of  a  man; 
in  corduroy  trousers.  "I've  used  'em  for  the  last 
fifteen  years." 

"Capital,"  said  the  officer.  "You're  the  sort  we 
want."  And  the  ex-nawy  moved  on  a  few  steps  to 
have  his  name  written  down  by  a  civilian  at  the  end  of 
the  table. 

Behind  him  came  an  out-at-elbows  clerk  of  non- 
descript appearance;  behind  the  clerk  came  a  sandy- 
bearded,  blue-eyed,  neatly  dressed  person;  and  behind 

20f 


210  A  LITTLE  MORE 

him  again  there  was  a  big  elderly  man,  in  a  woefully 
shabby  shooting  suit,  who  had  already  attracted  some 
attention.  The  officer  stared  and  two  of  the  civilians 
grinningly  nudged  each  other  as  this  volunteer  in  his 
turn  stood  before  the  table.  The  sandy  man  in  front 
of  him  had  whispered  that  he  ought  to  uncover,  but, 
disregarding  the  advice,  he  stood  there  with  his  soiled 
and  battered  Homburg  hat  pulled  low  to  his  ears. 

"Take  off  your  hat,"  said  the  officer,  as  if  disgusted 
by  his  bad  manners ;  and  the  old  fellow  reluctantly 
obeyed,  disclosing  a  shock  of  grey  hair. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?"  said  the  officer. 

"I  want  to  roll  up  with  the  others — to  enlist  in  the 
battalions,  and  do  my  bit  out  there  with  the  rest  of 
them." 

"Is  this  meant  for  a  joke,  or  have  you  been 
drinking?" 

"No,  sir,  certainly  not.     I'm  a  total  abstainer." 

"How  old  are  you?" 

"Forty-five." 

"That's  a  silly  sort  of  lie,"  said  the  officer,  irritably. 
"Seventy-five?" 

"No,  sir,  that  would  be  a  great  exaggeration.  Look 
at  me,  sir.  I'm  hale  and  hearty — solid  all  through"; 
and  the  old  man  pulled  himself  together,  and  stood  very 
erect.  "I  can  work  as  well  as  some  of  the  young  'uns. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  work;  only  it's  work  that  I  can't 
find,  try  how  I  will." 

"Oh,  yes,  we  know  that  story." 

"No,  don't  say  that,  sir.  I'm  not  deceiving  you"; 
and  the  old  man  pleaded  eagerly.  "Don't  turn  me 
down,  sir.  I  need  it.  I've  a  wife  and  family.  Don't 


ADVERSITY  211 

send  me  back  to  'em  empty  again.  Three  years  I've 
been  struggling  an'  sinking  all  the  time.  Yet  there's 
nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  earn  an  honest  livelihood." 

"That's  enough.     Pass  on.     Sergeant!" 

"No,  sir,  do  please  hear  me  out.  I've  education, 
knowledge  of  business — held  a  responsible  post  thirty 
odd  years  in  the  city  o'  London.  I've  known  pros- 
perity too.  This  is  the  truth  I'm  telling  you.  I  was 
a  very  rich  man,  for  a  little  while,  I  was.  But  they 
took  it  from  me,  through  no  fault  of  my  own.  They 
took  it  to  my  last  penny.  They  made  me  bankrupt, 
and  my  son  too.  Because  of  my  business  connections 
they  took  and  interned  me — they  did  indeed,  sir;  they 
shut  me  up  in  a  prisoners'  camp,  and  kept  me  there  at 
the  very  moment  when  I  might  have  been  saving  some- 
thing out  of  the  wreck  of  my  affairs  if  allowed  to 
attend  to  them.  They  treated  me  something  shameful 
over  the  bankruptcy  proceedings,  and  then  turned  me 
loose,  to  starve,  for  all  they  cared.  And  so  I  might 
have  done,  if  not  assisted  by  my  own  children." 

"Sergeant.     Clear  him  out." 

"No,  sir.  I  say  the  state  oughtn't  to  abandon  a  man 
like  this.  My  son  is  fighting  for  his  country  at  this 
minute.  His  wife  is  serving  as  a  nurse.  My  two 
daughters " 

But  the  officer  would  hear  no  more,  and  the  poor  old 
chap  was  bundled  out  of  the  building.  As  if  not  yet 
giving  up  hope,  he  hung  about  in  the  small  courtyard 
where  all  the  men  were  waiting;  and  here  presently  one 
of  those  civilian  gentlemen  who  had  been  at  the  table 
came  out  and  talked  to  him. 

"I  admire  your  spirit,"  said  this  gentleman,  kindly 


212  A  LITTLE  MORE 

enough;  "but  you  must  see  yourself  it  is  impossible. 
We  are  bound  by  the  age  limit,  which,  goodness  knows, 
is  high  enough." 

Then  the  old  chap,  touched  by  the  gentleman's  kind 
tone,  spoke  with  emotion.  "Get  'em  to  stretch  a  point. 
I'm  not  an  ordinary  case.  You  see  in  me,  sir,  a  man 
who  has  been  worse  treated  by  the  laws  of  this  country 
— yes,  worse,  I  do  believe — than  any  man  that  ever 
lived.  I'd  like  to  tell  you  the  history  of  my  family"; 
and  he  went  on  with  a  rambling  account  of  how  he  had 
valid  claims  against  the  government,  of  how  he  must 
certainly  be  compensated  if  the  true  facts  were  known, 
and  of  how  disgracefully  his  solicitor  had  let  him) 
down.  "But  it's  not  going  to  rest  there,"  he  said  in 
conclusion.  "If  I  can  only  keep  my  head  above  water, 
I'll  take  it  to  the  steps  of  the  throne  before  I've  done." 

The  kindly  gentleman,  tired  of  the  conversation, 
hurried  away,  with  some  vaguely  polite  formula,  such 
as,  "I  fear  it's  not  in  my  power  to  be  of  substantial 
assistance.  I  should  advise  you  to  go  to  one  of  the 
charitable  organizations." 

"But  I  have  my  pride,"  the  old  man  called  after 
him,  loudly  and  indignantly.  "It's  employment  I  ask 
for,  not  charity." 

Then  somebody  else  spoke  to  him.  It  was  the  sandy 
blue-eyed  man  who  had  advised  him  to  remove  his  hat; 
this  fortunate  person  had  been  accepted. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I  heard  all  what  you  told  'em 
inside,  and  I  read  it  up  as  a  dirty  shame  the  way 
you've  been  treated — shoving  you  in  a  camp  with 
enemies.  What's  your  name?" 

"Welby." 

"Welby!     That  don't  sound  German." 


ADVERSITY  213 

"No,  I'm  British  to  the  backbone,"  said  Mr.  Welby, 
stoutly.  "It  was  just  the  devil's  luck  that  muddled 
me  up  with  a  pack  of  rascally  Austrians  at  the  time 
the  war  broke  out." 

"Well,  my  name's  Tom  Chance.  I'm  a  widower,  but 
I've  had  a  wife  and  fam'ly  in  my  time.  Now  answer 
me  one  question.  Can  you  drive  a  horse  and  cart?" 

"Yes,  I  can,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  eagerness.  "I'm 
a  very  good  whip." 

"Then  you  come  along  with  me,  Welby,  old  boy." 

And  as  they  walked  away  together  Mr.  Welby's  new 
acquaintance  explained  that  he  was  in  the  employment 
of  a  greengrocer,  as  carman,  and  he  saw  no  reason  why 
Mr.  Welby  should  not  step  into  the  job  that  he  now 
vacated  by  becoming  a  soldier. 

"Chance,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  "I'll  be 
grateful  as  long  as  I  live  if  you  can  do  this  for  me." 

"Somebody's  got  to  get  the  job,"  said  Chance,  "and 
it'd  best  be  one  as  really  wants  it.  The  guv'nor  don't 
know  I'm  goin'  yet";  and  Chance  tapped  his  nose  and 
laughed  cheerfully.  "When  I  break  the  news  to  him  I 
may  as  well  name  my  successor  at  the  same  time." 
Then  he  further  explained  that  he  had  joined  the  army 
because  he  felt  a  kind  of  call  to  get  as  near  to  the  sound 
of  the  guns  as  he  could.  Also  the  sight  of  all  the  sleek 
smug  young  men  who  had  shirked  their  duty  so 
disgusted  him  that  he  would  be  glad  to  get  out  of 
London  anyhow.  As  he  said  this,  he  stopped  walking 
and  spat  upon  the  pavement.  "So  it's  khaki  for  Tom 
Chance  at  any  price.  I'm  not  a  chicken,  as  you  can 
see — though  I  ain't  as  old  as  you,  old  cock."  And  he 
laughed  again.  "Forty-five!  That  was  a  real  good 
'un  you  slung  up  to  'em.  It  was  that  what  made  me 


214  A  LITTLE  MORE 

take  to  you.     Now  come  in  here  and  have  a  drink. 
Then  we'll  get  on  with  it." 

Mr.  Welby  hesitated,  fearful  of  offending  this  friendi 
in  need;  but  he  said  at  last  that  he  would  not  drink 
himself,  although  he  would  watch  with  pleasure  Mr. 
Chance  drinking. 

"Eh,  but  that's  dull  work.  Change  your  mind.  A 
spot?" 

"Much  obliged.  I  don't  feel  to  want  it,"  said  Mr. 
Welby.  "And  to  be  frank,  I  promised  my  missis  never 
to  begin  that  game  again.  I  had  my  reasons." 

"/  see,"  said  Chance.  "And  I  don't  know  that  I 
want  anything  myself.  We'll  keep  moving." 

*"Is  it  near,  where  we're  going?"  asked  Mr.  Welby, 
as  they  walked  on. 

"No,  miles  away,  right  across  London.  Brixton 
Hill." 

Mr.  Welby  winced.  Brixton  Hill  was  sufficiently 
near  the  neighbourhood  where  he  had  so  long  resided  in 
peace  and  comfort  to  arouse  painful  memories.  But 
no  matter. 

They  went  there  by  train,  and  during  the  journey 
Tom  Chance  offered  some  scraps  of  useful  information 
about  Root  the  greengrocer. 

"He's  a  cruel  pincher — what  I  call  a  vindictive  man, 
if  you  give  him  his  way.  The  cost  of  living  and  rise 
of  food  is  nothing  to  him,  except  when  he  can  make  his 
profit  out  of  it.  He  won't  give  you  more  than  the  bare 
thirty  bob  a  week." 

"It's  as  -much  as  I  expected,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "I 
can  do  on  it,  and  I'll  tell  you  why.  I  have  two  good 
daughters,  and  they're  doing  well — they've  done  well, 
all  along,  bless  their  hearts.  One  pound  a  week  they've 


ADVERSITY  215 

given  their  mother  and  me  ever  since  they  were  forced 
to  turn  to  and  work  for  their  living." 

Then,  till  they  reached  their  destination,  he  con- 
tinued to  talk  about  his  family. 

His  two  girls,  he  said,  had  been  able  to  save  some- 
thing when  the  crash  came;  they  were  allowed  to  keep 
their  personal  property,  ornaments,  wearing  apparel, 
musical  instruments ;  and  all  of  this  they  possessed  still, 
carefully  stored  at  a  depository,  ready  to  bring  out 
and  enjoy  on  the  advent  of  better  days. 

"Chance,  I  tell  them  never  to  part  with  any  of  it, 
even  if  it's  mere  finery.  I  tell  'em  they're  sure  to  want 
it  one  day.  Do  you  follow  me,  Chance?  I  say  all  that 
for  a  purpose — the  purpose  of  keeping  up  their  hope. 
It's  a  duty  to  keep  up  the  hopes  of  one's  family  as 
well  as  one's  own  hopes.  For  without  hope,  where  are 
we?  I  maintain  that  when  a  man  abandons  hope,  well, 
that's  the  real  bankruptcy.  So  to  speak,  he's  put  up 
the  shutters  with  his  own  hands,  filed  his  ovu  petition, 
and  declared  his  mental  assets  as  nil." 

"Did  you  get  that  out  of  a  book?" 

"No.  It  was  merely  my  personal  reflections,"  said 
Mr.  Welby,  perceptibly  gratified.  "The  more  you 
think,  the  more  you  see;  and  the  older  you  grow,  the 
more  occasion  you  have  for  thinking.  There's  one 
thing  I  see  now  very  clearly,  and  that  is:  if  you  make 
a  mistake,  don't  pretend  you  haven't  made  one.  I 
made  a  mistake  when  I  quarrelled  with  my  son,  and 
I'm  grateful  to  providence  that  his  mother  forced  me 
to  patch  it  up  with  him.  I  tell  you,  Chance,  if  that 
boy  had  been  killed  while  the  bad  blood  subsisted,  I'd 
'ave  never  got  over  it" ;  and  Mr.  Welby  passed  the  back 
of  his  hand  across  his  eyes  and  coughed. 


216  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Why  did  you  quarrel  with  him?" 

"It  was  like  this.  At  the  period  of  our  misfortunes 
he  had  the  opportunity  of  marrying  a  very  wealthy 
young  woman,  and  the  view  I  took  was  that  he  ought 
to  have  done  it — and  thereby  come  to  the  rescue  of  his 
family  and  put  them  on  their  legs  again.  He  took  the 
opposite  view  and  refused — telling  his  mother  it  was 
beneath  him,  saying  it  would  be  mean  and  degraded." 

"Ah!  Well,  I  do  seem  to  catch  his  argument.  I 
myself  have  never  had  much  respect  for  a  fellow  that 
lives  on  his  wife's  money;  and  when  it  comes  to  all  his 
relations  living  on  it  too,  well,  it  do  seem  a  bit  hot, 
don't  it?" 

"Yes,  Chance,  I  was  wrong.  I  told  you  that  I  now 
see  I  was  wrong.  The  more  so,  because  there  was  a 
complication  in  my  lad's  plans.  This  rich  girl  was  in 
love  with  him,  but  he  was  in  love  with  a  poor  girl.  And 
that  was  the  one  he  married — the  poor  one." 

"A  bit  of  a  sportsman,  your  son!" 

"Too  much  so— but  that's  another  story.  Let  by- 
gones be  bygones.  As  I  was-  saying,  directly  he  came 
out  of  prison " 

"Out  o'  prison?     What  had  he  been  in  prison  for?" 

"He'd  got  himself  into  some  silly  scrape  with  the 
police.  To  this  day  I  don't  know  the  rights  of  it. 
But  I'll  say,  I  know  sure  enough  he  was  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning.  /  couldn't  help  him,  7  was  caged ; 
the  fine  wasn't  forthcoming — so  they  put  him  away,  for 
a  month.  When  he  got  out  the  war  was  raging;  and 
he  married  and  enlisted  on  the  same  morning.  Now, 
here,  Chance,  is  another  reflection — another  little  bit 
o'  my  philoso " 


ADVERSITY  217 

"Yes,  but  you  must  save  that  bit,  Welby;  for  this 
is  our  station." 

As  they  approached  the  greengrocer's  shop,  Chance 
gave  final  instructions. 

"Not  a  word  to  Mr.  Root  about  having  seen  better 
days  and  fallen  in  the  world — that'd  only  frighten  him 
and  put  him  off.  Don't  you  talk  too  much.  Leave  it 
to  me." 

Thanks  to  Chance,  Mr.  Welby  obtained  the  job. 
Root,  a  horrid  grubby  little  man,  with  a  huge  fat  wife 
almost  three  times  his  size,  hummed  and  hawed,  but  in 
truth  was  well  pleased  to  secure  a  substitute  for  the 
man  he  was  losing.  Men  nowadays,  both  in  the  front 
line  and  at  this  great  distance  behind  it,  were  becoming 
more  and  more  scarce. 

"But  what  about  his  character?"  said  Mrs.  Root, 
asthmatically  and  fretfully.  "Does  he  bring  good  ref- 
erences ?" 

Mr.  Welby  was  going  to  speak,  but  Chance  spoke  for 
him. 

"I  give  myself  as  his  references,"  said  Chance. 
"And  I  certify  to  his  character." 

"You  do,  do  you?"  said  Mrs.  Root,  breathing  hard. 
"But  how  long  have  you  known  this  man  Welby?" 

"Many  and  many  a  year  have  I  known  this  man 
Welby,"  said  Chance,  with  great  firmness.  "And  I 
know  him  to  be  honest  and  straightforward — a  good 
driver,  accustomed  to  horses,  free  from  the  drink 
habit."  And  turning  for  a  moment  with  his  back  to 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Root,  he  gave  Mr.  Welby  a  prodigious 
wink.  Then  he  turned  again  to  his  late  employer. 


218  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"He  can  take  over  my  room  at  the  mews,  and  begin 
his  work  to-morrow.  He  is  now  living  up  north.  And 
what  you  best  do,  Mr.  Root,  is  to  give  him  the  loan 
of  the  van  to  fetch  his  missus  and  his  few  bits  of 
sticks." 

"Oh,  that  be  blowed  for  a  tale,"  said  Mr.  Root. 
"It's  no  business  of  mine  how  he  moves  his  traps." 

"Come,  come,"  said  Chance  firmly.  "Fair's  fair. 
At  the  screw  what  you're  paying  him  you  may  as  well 
be  just,  for  you  certainly  aren't  generous.  What's 
more — you'd  better  let  him  have  fifteen  bob  on  account 
of  his  week's  pay.  It  stands  to  reason  in  these  times 
a  man  can't  finance  himself  ahead." 

Mr.  Root  protested,  Mrs.  Root  nearly  suffocated, 
but  these  severe  terms  were  finally  accepted,  and,  as 
Chance  led  Mr.  Welby  around  to  the  mews,  he  whis- 
tled and  laughed  gaily.  He  was  pleased  with  himself. 
"When  you're  doing  a  thing,"  he  said  modestly,  "you 
may  as  well  carry  it  through  in  proper  form." 

Mr.  Welby  stopped,  grasped  his  hand,  and  spoke 
with  husky  but  intense  gratitude. 

"Chance,  my  dear  fellow,  you  overwhelm  me.  I'll 
never  forget  it — not  to  my  dying  day." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Chance,  and  he  took  Mr. 
Welby  into  the  snug  little  mews,  introduced  him  to 
the  horse  and  the  cart,  and  set  him  to  do  a  turn  of 
work  while  he  himself  began  his  packing. 

"What  am  I  to  call  the  horse?"  said  Mr.  Welby,  in 
his  shirt  sleeves,  looking  out  of  the  stable  door 
presently.  "I  mean,  what's  his  name?" 

"I  call  him  Diomed,"  shouted  Chance,  from  his 
room  upstairs.  "I  don't  suppose  that's  his  real  name. 
Dessay  he's  had  a  many  names  in  .his  time.  I  chris- 


ADVERSITY  219 

tened  him  that  after  the  King's  horse.  You  know, 
the  one  that  won  the  big  race." 

The  horse  was  not  unlike  Mr.  Manger's  famous 
brown  hackney,  although  considerably  older,  and  the 
greengrocer's  light  van  would  no  doubt  drive  as  easily 
as  Mr.  Manger's  T-cart. 

"So-ho,  Diomed,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  as  he  clumsily 
groomed  the  animal.  "Steady  now — quiet,  my  boy. 
Steady."  He  gave  his  admonitions  because  he  thought 
they  were  professional  and  businesslike,  not  because 
the  horse  was  showing  any  disposition  towards  excite- 
ment. Indeed  the  sober  tranquil  Diomed  watched  him 
with  a  lack-lustre  eye,  as  if  surprised  by,  but  willingly 
tolerating,  all  these  strange  attentions.  "Steady  then. 
S-s-s.  S-s-s";  and  Mr.  Welby  made  the  hissing  noise 
to  which  he  had  often  listened  when  helpers  made  it 
in  Mr.  Manger's  yard,  while  scraping  and  brushing 
their  beasts.  Having  finished  the  toilet  of  Diomed,  he 
put  the  harness  on  for  practice;  hung  it  up  again  for 
practice.  Then  he  got  the  bucket  and  a  short  ravelled 
piece  of  hose,  and  he  washed  the  wheels  of  the  van. 

"I  oare  for  nobody,  no,  not  I! 
And  nobody  cares  for  me  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Welby  sang  at  his  work.  His  hands  were  half 
frozen,  the  perspiration  was  pouring  off  his  broad 
face;  his  back  ached  from  stooping;  but,  although 
perhaps  he  did  not  know  it,  he  was  thoroughly  happy. 

It  was  late  when  he  got  back  to  the  block  of  work- 
men's dwellings  at  which  for  some  months  he  had 
resided. 

In  the  little  front  room  he  found  his  wife  and  elder 
daughter,  and  on  the  sound  of  his  voice  Primrose  came 


220  A  LITTLE  MORE 

out  of  the  tiny  back  room.  They  had  been  waiting 
supper  for  him. 

"You've  good  news,"  said  Mrs.  Welby.  "I  can  see 
it  in  your  face." 

"Perhaps  you've  guessed  right,"  he  said  jovially. 
"But  first,  let's  have  our  food.  What  are  you  going 
to  give  us  to-night,  mother?" 

"Well,  there's  the  remains  of  the  cheese  for  you. 
Just  enough  for  one.  The  girls  and  I  aren't  hungry 
— so  we  shouldn't  touch  it,  however  much  there  was." 

"No,"  said  Violet. 

"We  both  had  our  solid  meal  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,"  said  Primrose. 

"Oh,  had  you?"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "Then  you're 
going  to  have  something  tasty  at  the  end  of  it.  Look 
here."  With  a  triumphant  air  he  laid  a  small  packet 
on  the  table.  "I've  brought  you  some  sausages." 

"Sausages,"  echoed  Mrs.  Welby.     "Not  pork?" 

"Now,  mother,  none  o'  your  cross-questioning. 
Never  you  mind  what  they're  made  of.  There,  shove 
'em  in  the  frying-pan." 

Very  soon  the  six  thin  sausages  were  sizzling  in  the 
pan  and  adding  their  odour  to  the  rather  stuffy  at- 
mosphere; the  fire  crackled  with  some  wood  that  Mrs. 
Welby  had  received  as  a  present  from  a  neighbour;  the 
two  girls,  helping  their  mother,  boiled  the  water  and 
made  the  tea.  Both  together  they  folded  and  put 
away  some  pieces  of  needle-work  that  littered  the  bed. 
Then  they  put  the  chair  at  the  table  for  their  uaother, 
and  the  packing-case  for  Mr.  Welby. 

"But,  father,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  looking  round  from 
the  stove,  "you  have  some  better  news  for  us  than 
these  sausages.  I  know  you  had." 


ADVERSITY  221 

Mr.  Welby  chuckled.  "I  wanted  to  save  it  up. 
But  I  mustn't  keep  you  in  suspense.  I've  got  a  job." 

"Oh,  father,  how  splendid  of  you,"  cried  Primrose, 
gaily,  "how  truly  splendid !" 

"Hearty  congrats,"  said  Violet. 

Mrs.  Welby,  leaving  her  task  for  a  moment,  gave 
him  an  enthusiastic  hug. 

Then  soon  supper  was  ready  and  they  took  their 
places,  Violet  and  Primrose  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed. 

"Father,"  said  Primrose,  as  he  began  to  distribute 
the  six  sausages,  "if  you  think  I  can  eat  one  and  a 
half,  you're  very  much  off  the  line." 

"Nor  I  either,"  said  Violet.  "One  is  the  uttermost 
I  can  tackle.  No,  please,  father.  Then  there'll  be 
two  apiece  for  you  and  mother." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  "I'm  not  an 
ogress.  One  for  me,  father.  Take  two  yourself — 
and  we  can  talk  about  the  odd  one  later." 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Welby  hesitated;  then  he  acted 
with  decision.  "Now  no  nonsense.  One  and  a  half 
each  is  fair  arithmetic.  Mother  ...  Vi  ...  Prim"; 
and  he  handed  the  plates. 

He  himself  had  eaten  nothing  all  day ;  and  if,  as 
they  said,  the  ladies  had  already  enjoyed  a  solid  meal, 
they  showed  a  sharp  appetite.  The  sausages  vanished 
in  what  seemed  the  silence  of  a  moment;  the  large 
piece  of  brownish  war  bread  swiftly  grew  small. 

"Now  you're  just  going  to  finish  off  that  bit  of 
cheese,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  in  an  authoritative  tone. 

"Shall  I?"  said  Mr.  Welby,  again  hesitating.  But 
this  time  he  gave  way  to  pressure.  "Well,  if  you 
insist — only  I  wish  you'd  all  join." 


222  A  LITTLE  MORE 

After  the  cheese  Mr.  Welby  lit  his  pipe,  and  they 
remained  seated  at  the  table  while  he  talked  to  them. 

"Listen,"  he  said,  with  a  chuckle.  "What  d'you 
think  I  done  this  morning?  I  don't  mind  confessing 
I've  felt  fairly  desperate  these  last  days.  I  wouldn't 
tell  you,  mother,  because  I  knew  you'd  make  a  fine 
how-d'ye-do.  But  here's  the  plain  truth.  I  went  and 
offered  myself  as  a  soldier." 

"No?"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  leaning  back  in  her  chair, 
aghast.  "Oh,  no,  don't  say  that.  Don't  say  you  ever 
had  such  a  wicked  thought  as  to  desert  us." 

"Wicked  thought!  Desert  you!  It  was  the  pay  I 
was  after.  The  pay  in  these  new  corps  is  tremendous ; 
and,  as  everything  is  found,  I  could  have  sent  it  all 
home.  Anyhow,  they  wouldn't  have  me." 

"It  was  very  very  wrong  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 

"No,  mother,"  said  Primrose,  with  her  eyes  glowing; 
"It  was  grand  of  him.  Oh,  you  poor  old  dear — you 
poor  brave  old  dear!"  and  she  flung  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  burst  into  tears. 

"There,  there,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  patting  her  head. 
"What's  all  this  about?  This  isn't  like  you,  Prim. 
You're  the  one  we  look  to  for  to  make  us  laugh  at 
our  troubles,  not  for  displays  of  waterworks." 

"Yes,  and  so  I  will,"  said  Primrose,  drying  her  eyes. 
"Ha,  ha,  ha.  It's  very  funny  really — damned  funny, 
if  you  look  at  it  in  the  right  light.  Go  on  with  your 
story,  you  old  windbag." 

"Prim,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  "that's  not  the  way  to 
speak  to  your  father.  Don't  drop  back  into  that 
style." 

"Let  her  be,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  gently.  "Well  now, 
where  was  I?" 


ADVERSITY  223 

Then  he  told  her  how,  through  the  kindness  of  an 
accidental  acquaintance,  he  had  secured  an  engage- 
ment ;  and  for  a  little  while  he  generalized,  holding 
forth  quite  in  his  old  Clapham  style. 

"It  is  always  the  same  thing.  Look  at  that  wood 
fire,'*  and  he  pointed  to  the  dying  embers.  "We  have 
no  claim  of  any  sort  on  this  Mrs.  Sell  of  Block  B, 
yet  she  brings  us  a  nice  bit  of  wood  out  of  her  over- 
plus. Who  is  it  that  has  helped  us,  time  and  often? 
Those  one  might  have  expected?  No.  Those  who 
owed  us  nothing.  In  the  beginning,  when  we  lowered 
our  pride  to  ask,  we  met  with  silence  or  refusal,  until 
I  gave  you  all  the  order  never  again  to  apply  to  old 
friends.  Was  I  right?" 

"You're  always  right,"  said  Primrose,  with  a  shrill 
little  laugh;  and  s'he  got  up  and  began  to  clear  the 
table. 

By  the  light  of  the  one  candle,  Mrs.  Welby  presently 
read  them  a  letter  from  Jack  that  had  come  that 
afternoon.  Jack  reported  himself  as  in  the  best  of 
health,  but  regretted  to  say  that  he  was  no  nearer 
the  officer's  commission  which  he  craved  for  than  when 
he  last  wrote.  "They  pass  me  over  every  time,"  wrote 
Jack. 

"Disgraceful  of  them,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 

"Yes,  so  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "But  he  doesn't 
assert  himself  enough.  If  he  had  a  little  more  push 
he'd  get  it." 

The  girls  were  busy  tidying,  putting  everything 
away,  making  the  beds  in  both  rooms  ready  for  the 
night;  and  as  they  moved  to  and  fro  he  settled  future 
arrangements  with  them.  Apart  from  the  fact  that 
there  was  no  accommodation  for  them  at  the  mews, 


224  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Brixton  Hill  would  be  too  far  from  their  work.  He 
said  they  could  stay  here  till  the  end  of  the  week, 
and  then  they  must  rent  a  single  room. 

"Don't  you  trouble  about  us,  father." 

"No,  my  dear  Vi,  I  don't  trouble,  because  so  long 
as  you  are  together  with  the  same  firm,  doing  well, 
as  you  are,  you  can  afford  to  live  by  yourselves  decently 
and  comfortably.  Don't  think,"  he  hastened  to  add, 
"that  when  I  speak  of  your  being  able  to  afford  things, 
I  am  belittling  the  generous  aid  you  give  to  us.  Your 
conduct,  all  through,  has  made  me  prouder  than  I  can 
ever  say." 

"Father,  please  don't." 

"Prim,  my  little  fairy,  I  mean  it.  ...  Now  off  to 
bed  with  you.  And  bless  you  both." 


CHAPTER  II 

SMALL  as  was  the  bed  they  shared  together,  it 
occupied  nearly  the  whole  space  of  the  back 
room  and  rendered  undressing  difficult;  so  that 
some  little  time  elapsed  before  they  crept  into  it.  The 
night  was  cold;  they  had  piled  their  skirts  and  petti- 
coats on  top  of  the  scanty  blankets,  and  they  snuggled 
close  for  warmth  and  yet  lay  shivering  while  they 
listened  to  sounds  from  the  front  room. 

Their  parents  were  already  in  bed  there,  and  soon 
a  deep  and  plaintive  snoring  announced  that  both 
slept.  Sure  now  that  they  would  not  be  overheard,  the 
girls  began  to  whisper  about  their  carefully-guarded 
secret. 

The  secret  was  that  they  were  not  doing  well.  They 
had  never  done  well.  But  they  had  always  pretended 
to  do  well,  so  as  to  keep  their  parents  in  heart. 
From  the  beginning  they  had  pooled  their  resources, 
putting  all  their  earnings  together,  and  from  the 
common  fund  drawing  that  unfailing  weekly  contri- 
bution of  which  Mr.  Welby  spoke  with  such  gratitude 
and  pride.  Unhappily  the  contribution  had  not  been 
entirely  earned;  to  keep  it  going  they  had  been  forced 
to  sell,  bit  by  bit,  all  of  thotee  personal  belongings  which 
Mr.  Welby  stilll  supposed  to  be  stored  in  some  safe 
deposit.  Nothing  remained  to  them — not  even  Prim- 
rose's violin,  not  even  Violet's  dictionary  of  compara- 
tive quotations. 

Further  than  this,   they  were  not,  as  Mr.   Welby 
226 


226  A  LITTLE  MORE 

believed,  in  work;  they  were  out  of  work.  Till  this 
week  they  had  been  working  at  a  milliner's  shop  kept 
by  a  man  and  his  wife,  who  were  successfully  profiteer- 
ing by  the  rapid  creation  of  useful  outfits  for  war 
brides,  and  ornamental  weeds  for  war  widows ;  but  last 
week  they  had  been  summarily  dismissed.  The  man- 
milliner,  elderly  but  amorous,  had  said  something  to 
Primrose — something  that  caused  Primrose,  in  a  flash 
of  her  old  quick  spirit,  to  slap  his  face.  From  spite 
he  at  once  "turned  her  off";  and  his  wife  dismissed 
Violet  to  make  a  clean  sweep  of  it.  She  vowed  that 
they  had  both  been  trying  to  get  at  her  husband  from 
the  moment  they  entered  the  workroom,  making  eyes 
at  him,  leading  him  on  to  forget  himself.  They  were 
not  to  send  anyone  to  her  for  a  character.  If  they 
did,  she  would  say  precisely  what  she  thought  of  them. 

In  such  matters  there  was  no  rivalry  between  the 
sisters  nowadays.  Indeed  it  seemed  a  cruelly  ironical 
stroke  of  fate  that  they  who  had  sought  so  hard  for 
admirers  should  now  find  them  at  every  corner,  that 
they  should  as  it  were  be  tripped  up  by  them  when 
they  least  expected  it,  and  thus  be  forced  to  lament 
the  possession  of  charms  which  once  they  were  so  eager 
to  enhance  by  every  artificial  aid. 

What  were  they  to  do?  Primrose  whispered  the 
question,  after  alluding  to  their  latest  calamity. 
Where  were  they  to  get  next  week's  pound  for  father 
and  mother? 

"Father  will  lose  this  new  job,  just  as  he  has  lost 
every  other  job,"  whispered  Violet.  "He'll  do  some- 
thing stupendously  clumsy  or  stupid — without  even 
being  aware  that  he's  doing  it." 

"I  know,  I  know,"   said  Primrose  in  a  throbbing 


ADVERSITY  227 

whisper.  "Poor  old  darling,  he  sees  nothing,  he  learns 
nothing.  How  can  he  have  got  on  in  that  warehouse 
for  so  many  years?  And  then,  Vi,  only  to  think  of 
his  trying  to  join  the  army";  and  Primrose's  whisper 
throbbed  and  wavered.  "Vi,  when  he  sat  there  talking 
of  it,  and  I  thought  of  his  helplessness,  his  incom- 
petence, and  his  brave  loyal  heart,  it  was  as  if  some- 
thing deep  inside  me  began  to  bleed;  and  it  goes  on 
bleeding." 

"Yes,  I  felt  the  same.  Mother  too,'*  whispered 
Violet  dolefully.  ."She's  just  as  helpless — just  as 
hopelessly  incapable.  Yet  you  know  how  we  always 
thought  she  was  a  good  manager — and  ran  the  house 
properly.  I  suppose  it  was  Sarah  who  really  did  it 
all  and  kept  her  straight.  Now  she  simply  doesn't 
seem  to  have  an  idea.  She  makes  every  possible 
mistake,  doesn't  she?  I'd  cut  my  tongue  out  sooner 
than  reproach  her;  but  it's  so  pitiably  obvious,  isn't 
it?" 

Thus,  whispering  in  the  darkness,  they  criticized 
their  parents,  but  with  a  pity  and  a  love  so  intense 
that  criticism  was  like  respectful  praise. 

"Oh,  Vi,  we  mustn't  fail  them,  we  won't  fail  them. 
But,  oh,  what  are  we  to  do?"  Then  Primrose,  who 
truly  in  these  hard  years  had  shown  a  courage  from 
which  the  other  three  had  derived  support,  who  had 
entirely  put  aside  her  ancient  habit  of  shedding  tears, 
now  wept  most  bitterly  upon  her  sister's  shoulder,  and 
for  a  little  while  seemed  altogether  to  lose  heart.  She 
made  no  noise,  for  fear  of  waking  the  sleepers;  she 
just  lay  shaking  and  writhing,  with  the  tears  flowing. 

"Vi,"  she  whispered,  when  she  was  able  to  articulate 
again,  "is  there  a  curse  upon  us  all?  If  not,  why 


228  A  LITTLE  MORE 

should  we  fail — -I  mean,  you  and  I,  just  as  much  as 
those  two  poor  dears?  Jack  too!  To-night  I  feel  as 
i£  it's  no  use  struggling.  We  are  doomed.  We  shall 
go  on  dropping  down  and  down — no  matter  how  we 
try.  We  shall  sink — deeper  and  deeper — to  the  very 
gutter";  and  she  contorted  herself,  and  clung  to  her 
sister  as  if  for  refuge  from  what  was  coming  to  them. 

Then  after  a  miserable  silence  she  slowly  straightened 
her  spine  and  ceased  to  writhe. 

"Vi  dear,  forgive  me.  We — we  won't  fail.  I  swear 
it.  If  there's  a  curse  I  defy  it.  I — I'll  curse  too.  I 
won't  be  beaten.  I'll  do  something  reckless  and  des- 
perate sooner  than  give  in." 

"Ah,  that's  the  real  Primrose." 

"But,  Vi  dear,  we  must  separate.  It's  no  good  try- 
ing to  keep  together  any  longer.  There  are  things  I 
could  do  by  myself  that  I  couldn't  do  with  you." 

And  not  for  the  first  time  she  hinted  at  the  pos- 
sibility of  Violet's  going  into  domestic  service.  They 
had  both  agreed  in  the  beginning  that  nothing  should 
ever  force  them  to  what  they  felt  would  be  too  cruel 
a  humiliation.  They  would  rough  it,  take  hard 
knocks,  waive  the  last  pretensions  to  gentility,  but  they 
would  die  rather  than  wear  housemaids'  aprons  and 
call  people  Ma'am  and  Miss.  Now,  however,  as  des- 
tiny's' pincers  closed  further,  Primrose  began  to  think 
that  it  might  perhaps  be  wise  for  Violet  to  break  her 
vow.  Domestic  servants  were  so  scarce  that  situa- 
tions could  sometimes  be  obtained  by  girls  who  had 
neither  training  nor  character. 

But  it  was  Violet's  turn  to  shiver  and  weep.  "Don't 
ask  me  to  do  that,"  she  whimpered.  "Prim,  I  couldn't 


ADVERSITY  229 

bear  it.  It  may  be  false  pride — I  dare  say  it  is. 
Only  it  would  kill  me  to  give  it  up  altogether.'* 

And  Primrose,  whatever  she  really  thought,  said  it 
was  not  false  pride  but  proper  pride.  No  matter 
what  happened,  no  one  should  ever  make  Violet  be  a 
servant. 

"So  don't  cry.  Vi,  I've  been  a  selfish  pig  to  upset 
you  like  this  merely  because  I  felt  a  little  low.  I 
could  kick  myself  for  doing  it,  when  I  think  what 
you've  had  on  your  mind";  and  there  was  an  immense 
tenderness  in  Primrose's  whispered  words.  "You've 
been  so  plucky  about  it.  You  poor  old  Vi,  you  poor 
dear  old  Vi." 

"No,  on  my  honour,  Prim,  it  means  nothing  to  me. 
Why  should  I  mind?  I  know — I  always  knew  that  he 
never  cared  for  me.  It  was  only  the  money." 

"But  you,  Vi,  didn't  you  ever  care  for  him,  not  a 
little  bit?  Didn't  you  think  about  him?  Well,  I  must 
say  you've  been  an  absolute  brick  in  taking  it  as  you 
have." 

What  Violet  had  taken  so  well  was  the  surprise, 
great  or  little,  that  all  unexpected  news  must  occasion. 
The  two  sisters  had  been  studying  newspapers  at  a 
free  public  library  in  search  of  likely  openings,  when, 
passing  from  advertisements  to  editorial  columns,  they 
fell  upon  the  announcement  that  a  marriage  had  been 
arranged  and  would  shortly  take  place  between  Captain 
the  Honourable  Adolphus  Faring,  D.S.O.,  and  Irene, 
only  child  of  the  late  Micah  Quartz  and  Mrs.  Quartz 
of  No.  200,  Prince's  Gate. 

"No,"  Violet  repeated,  "it  means  nothing  to  me." 
Then  by  a  natural  sequence  of  ideas,  she  touched  upon 
the  subject  of  Hugo  Blyth.  "I  don't  want  to  pry; 


230  A  LITTLE  MORE 

so  don't  answer  if  you  don't  like.     But  are  you  still 
corresponding  with  him?" 

"Yes,  I  heard  from  him  three  days  ago." 

"Yet  you  say  you  were  never  really  fond  of  him!" 

"I  was  never  so  fond  of  him  as  I  am  now.  Vi,  I 
think  it's  so  awfully  decent  of  him  to  have  wanted  to 
keep  in  touch,  and  to  have  gone  on  wanting  it  for  such 
a  time.  I  love  getting  his  letters,  because  they  cheer 
me  up.  As  I  read  them  I  seem  to  hear  him  laughing. 
How  he  used  to  laugh,  didn't  he?  And  I  believe  now 
he's  the  only  person  alive  who  honestly  treats  this 
infernal  war  as  a  joke." 

"But,  Primrose,  if  you  feel  like  this,  why  do  you 
refuse  to  see  him  when  he  comes  on  leave?" 

"How  could  I?"  whispered  Primrose  distressfully. 
"My  word,  it  would  stop  even  him  laughing  if  I  turned 
up  in  my  rags  at  the  Ritz  Hotel.  Of  course  he  knows 
we're  broke  to  the  world,  but  if  he  saw  with  his  own 
eyes  what  our  real  state  is,  why  it  would  be  worse  than 
shell-shock.  He'd  have  a  fit.  He'd  want  to  give  me 
money — all  he  had  about  him — straightway.  And — 
and — Vi — suppose  I  yielded  to  temptation — and  took 
it!  Of  course  I  wouldn't  really.  I  should  die  of 
shame,  if  I  did." 

And  whether  Violet  thought  this  was  false  shame  or 
the  best  type  of  that  emotion,  she  said  her  sister  was 
quite  right  to  allow  it  to  rule  her  conduct. 

"I  shouldn't  worry,"  she  whispered,  "if  I  wasn't 
afraid  that  thoughts  of  Hugo  make  you  suffer — that 
you  really  are  a  tiny  piece  in  love  with  him  after  all." 

"Then  don't  worry.  He  was  never  anything  to  me 
but  an  amusing  pal — and  his  value  has  only  increased 
because  I  haven't  as  many  pals  as  I  used  to  have" ; 


ADVERSITY  231 

and  she  laughed  very  softly.  "I've  never  been  in  love, 
Vi.  Love's  a  big  thing — too  big  for  such  an  under- 
sized little  imp  as  me." 

Violet  sighed. 

Then  after  a  long  silence  Primrose  whispered 
sleepily. 

"Vi,  beastly  as  the  world  is,  there's  more  real  good 
in  people  than  I  used  to  think." 

Long  before  they  woke  in  the  morning  their  father 
had  gone  to  Brixton.  About  ten  o'clock  he  returned 
with  Diomed  and  the  van;  friendly  neighbours  in  the 
block  assisted  to  bring  down  and  load  the  small  array 
of  furniture  and  belongings;  and  the  winter  sunlight 
shone  feebly  on  them  as  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Welby  drove 
away. 

"Steady  now,  Diomed.  What  yer  looking  at? 
Never  seen  a  lorry  before?  Or  an  omnibus  either? 
None  of  your  shying,  sir,  with  me.  Steady  now." 

Mr.  Welby  was  busy  indeed,  quick  to  suspect  evil 
intentions  in  Diomed  and  quicker  still  to  circumvent 
them.  Mrs.  Welby  at  his  side  enjoyed  the  movement, 
the  colour,  the  panorama  of  life.  An  outing  was  a 
treat.  She  too  thought  that  it  was  very  like  one  of 
their  drives  in  Manger's  T-cart.  Only  they  never  used 
to  venture  into  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  crowded 
city. 

"Old  lady,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  beaming  at  her  when 
the  worst  was  over,  "this  is  a  bit  of  all  right,  eh? 
Not  nervous  of  the  traffic?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Welby.  "I  know  what  a  splen- 
did whip  you  are";  and  she  chattered  contentedly,  and 
sometimes  laughed  aloud. 


232  A  LITTLE  MORE 

She  never  tittered  nowadays.  She  had  been  free  of 
that  queer  affection  for  a  very  long  time. 

But  her  spirits  fell  after  they  had  crossed  the  river 
and  were  drawing  nearer  to  the  old  familiar  ground. 

"What's  the  matter,  mother?" 

She  confessed  that  she  was  thinking  of  chance  en- 
counters with  people  who  had  known  them  in  the  past, 
feheir  old  tradesmen,  even  residents  of  "the  road."  It 
would  be  rather  dreadful,  sitting  in  this  van,  to  come 
face  to  face  with  Mrs.  Verity  or  the  Castlemaines  or 
the  Fardels. 

"They  wouldn't  recognize  us,"  said  Mr.  Welby. 
"They  wouldn't  be  thinking  about  us,  or  looking  for 
us." 

"But  to-morrow — or  any  time.  Suppose  Mr.  Job- 
son  or  one  of  them  comes  into  the  mews,  or  catches 
you  outside  the  shop?  We  do  seem  to  be  getting  very 
near." 

"See  here,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "The  mews  and  the 
shop  are  over  a  mile  from  our  road,  as  the  crow  flies. 
Now  cheer  up,  old  lady.  Don't  spoil  it  all.  .  .  . 
Steady!  Would  you,  you  rascal?  D'you  notice  how 
he  pricks  his  ears  and  plunges  forward?  He  can  smell 
his  stable.  By  the  way,  the  stable  does  smell  a  bit 
strong,  and  our  room's  just  over  it." 


CHAPTER  III 

PRIMROSE  was  showing  her  legs  at  last,  but  not 
enjoying  it.     People  mocked  at  them. 
"Get    inside,    please,"    she    said    shrilly.     "I 
can't  have  you  standing  here." 

She  had  just  stopped  the  omnibus  to  take  up  two 
men  who  shouted  from  the  darkness  of  a  suburban  road 
not  very  far  from  the  end  of  her  journey.  If  there 
had  been  light  enough  to  see  them  properly  she  would 
have  passed  by,  leaving  them  to  slang  her  from  the 
pavement;  for  they  proved  to  be  passengers  of  the 
roughest  and  most  forbidding  character.  Now  they 
stood  in  the  narrow  space  between  the  staircase  and 
the  doorway,  and  refused  to  budge. 

"You  heard  what  I  said,"  she  repeated.  "Get  in- 
side. You  can't  stand  here." 

But  they  said  there  were  already  too  many  people 
standing  inside  the  'bus ;  besides,  there  was  no  head 
room  for  men  of  their  fine  stature.  Then  one  of  them 
said  he  did  not  mind  standing  on  top  of  the  'bus,  and 
be  began  to  mount  the  stairs. 

"No,"  said  Primrose,  "that's  not  allowed.  No 
standing  on  top." 

Then  they  showed  themselves  for  the  brutes  they 
were,  defying  her  and  abusing  her. 

Primrose  jerked  the  bell,  and  the  omnibus  slowed 
down  and  presently  stopped. 

"Now  you  two,"  she  said.     "Are  you  going  to  get 

inside  this  'bus  this  minute  and  behave  yourselves?" 

233 


234  A  LITTLE  MORE 

They  said  they  were  not,  opprobriously. 

"Then  get  off  the  'bus,  both  of  you." 

But  they  said  they  did  not  propose  to  do  that  either. 

"Very  well.  Then  this  'bus  doesn't  move  on  again 
till  you're  off  it.  And  as  soon  as  I  can  see  a  peeler, 
I  give  you  in  charge,  my  friends.  Understand  that." 

Her  heart  was  beating  wildly;  she  would  have  liked 
to  leave  the  'bus  herself  and  run  a  long  way  from  it; 
but  her  courage  rose  to  meet  the  great  necessity.  This 
was  the  kind  of  battle  that  she  had  been  dreading  for 
six  weeks.  They  had  said  she  was  too  small,  too  lady- 
like; that  if  challenged  she  would  not  exercise  sufficient 
authority,  and  she  had  sworn  that  she  was  afraid  of 
nothing.  She  must  not  quail. 

Holding  the  brass  bar  she  leaned  towards  the  pave- 
ment, and  peered  at  the  darkness  in  both  directions. 
But  of  course  there  were  no  policemen  in  this  suburban 
wilderness. 

"I  say.  Bed-time,"  called  one  of  the  inside  pas- 
sengers, and  he  pulled  the  bell  cord. 

"Don't  you  dare  touch  that  cord,"  said  Primrose, 
loud  and  shrill ;  and  she  herself  gave  the  cord  a  second 
jerk.  "You  see  my  predicament,  and  it's  your  duty 
to  assist  me,  not  to  impede  me." 

The  omnibus  had  moved  forward  a  few  yards,  but 
at  Primrose's  signal  it  stopped  again. 

Then  all  the  passengers  began  to  talk. 

"She  began  it,"  said  a  fat  old  woman.  "Why 
couldn't  she  ask  the  gentlemen  civilly?  Then  perhaps 
they'd  'a'  done  what  she  asked.  But  that's  the  way 
wi'  gells  nowadays — no  politeness,  no  respect  for  those 
older  than  themselves.  "Do  this.  Do  that."  They 


ADVERSITY  235 

seem  to  think  they  can  give  their  orders  to  everybody." 

"I've  a  train  to  catch,"  said  an  old  man.  And  they 
all  talked  at  once.  "Are  we  goin'  to  wait  here  till 
midnight?  .  .  .  What's  the  sense  of  it?  ...  Why 
can't  you  leave  the  girl  alone  when  she's  trying  to  do 
her  duty?  .  .  .  Here,  come  inside  and  be  finished  with 
it.  ...  Well,  you  needn't  quarrel  with  me.  .  .  .  I'm 
not  quarrelling  with  either  of  you." 

Then  some  young  soldiers  of  the  new  armies,  sitting 
deep  in  the  'bus,  spoke  with  youthful  indignation. 

"No,  hang  it  all,  it  isn't  fair  on  her.  All  right, 
miss.  We're  coming  to  pitch  the  blighters  into  the 
road  for  you." 

"No,  sit  down,  please,"  Primrose  called  to  them. 
"Much  obliged,  but  I  want  no  assistance  of  any  kind 
whatever,  thank  you.  They  think  they're  being  very 
clever,  but  they're  dam*  soon  going  to  find  themselves 
in  the  wrong  box." 

"There's  a  spit-fire,"  said  the  fat  old  lady,  as  if 
grievously  shocked.  "Did  you  hear  that?" 

Then  the  driver  of  the  'bus,  leaning  out  of  his  seat, 
shouted  in  a  husky  growling  voice: 

"What's  the  trouble?" 

"Only  two  blackguards  holding  up  the  'bus,"  shrilled 
Primrose,  "and  preventing  thirty  other  people  from 
getting  home  to  their  suppers  and  their  beds." 

That  was  a  good  speech  of  Primrose's,  and  it  won 
the  battle  for  her.  With  the  exception  of  the  old 
lady,  the  whole  'bus  ranged  itself  definitely  on  her  side ; 
and  such  a  storm  burst  forth  against  those  bad  men 
that,  reluctant  and  still  abusive,  they  dropped  off  the 
platform. 


236  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Primrose  rang  the  bell  triumphantly,  and  as  the  'bus 
lurched  into  motion  she  fired  parting  shots  at  the 
vanquished. 

"You'll  hear  of  this  again,  my  lads.  Don't  you 
think  I've  done  with  you." 

Then  she  wriggled  into  the  'bus,  and  with  tremulous 
fingers  clicked  her  puncher  as  she  issued  a  few  more 
tickets.  "Fares,  please.  Any  more  fares?  .  .  .  An- 
other penny,  sir,  to  the  'Green  Dragon.' ' 

Her  heart  was  still  beating  fast  and  her  head  had 
begun  to  ache  violently;  she  was  dead-tired,  and  she 
felt  a  little  faint  after  the  recent  strain  and  excite- 
ment; but  nevertheless  she  tasted  a  fierce  exulting  joy. 
This  was  life;  this  was  success.  And  her  thoughts 
sustained  her.  "I  am  a  'bus  conductor,"  she  thought 
proudly,  "doing  a  man's  work,  and  drawing  magnificent 
money.  I  have  done  it  for  six  long  weeks,  and  if  I 
keep  it  going,  as  I  shall,  that  precious  old  pair  of 
babies  are  safely  provided  for." 

The  'bus  had  to  be  stopped  frequently  now,  and  it 
was  empty  when,  reaching  its  terminus,  it  jolted  round 
a  corner  out  of  the  high  road  and  came  to  rest  by  a 
patch  of  waste  ground  behind  some  gas  works.  There 
was  a  thin  covering  of  snow  on  this  empty  area,  and 
the  whole  scene  was  dark  and  dismal.  By  reason  of 
war  regulations  not  a  light  showed  from  the  windows 
of  adjacent  houses.  A  man  came  out  of  an  invisible 
shelter  and  told  them  that  they  were  behind  time. 
They  must  be  ready  to  move  in  thirteen  minutes  instead 
of  the  usual  fifteen. 

"Righto,"  said  Primrose. 

"Come  and  eat  your  grub,"  said  the  driver,  growl- 
ingly.  He  stood  near  the  step,  enormous  in  his  leather 


ADVERSITY  237 

coat  and  gloves,  slapping  his  vast  chest;  and  as  he 
walked  cumbrously  across  the  snow  one  saw  him 
vaguely,  looking  like  a  grizzly  bear. 

Primrose  settled  down  in  a  corner  of  the  'bus,  and 
by  the  dim  light  put  her  ticket  case  to  rights,  arranged 
the  money  in  the  compartments  of  her  wallet,  made  up 
her  fare-sheet,  and  so  forth.  Then,  these  matters 
completed,  she  stretched  her  legs,  produced  a  brush 
and  removed  some  mud-stains  from  the  black  gaiters ; 
for  a  moment  took  off  her  peaked  cap  and  smoothed 
her  pretty  hair;  pulled  the  cross  straps  into  position 
on  her  shoulders,  putting  the  red  number  disk  under 
the  straps  in  front;  and  then  she  rose,  dragged  down 
the  skirts  of  her  tunic,  and  left  the  'bus  to  take  care 
of  itself. 

The  driver  sat  munching  alone  in  the  small  wooden 
shelter,  which  was  furnished  merely  with  a  couple  of 
benches  and  some  curtains  to  prevent  the  escape  of 
any  gleams  from  the  oil  lamp. 

"Have  a  drop  out  of  this,"  said  the  driver,  offering 
a  tin  bottle. 

"No,  thank  you,  Dick,"  said  Primrose  courteously; 
and  she  sat  on  the  opposite  bench  and  began  to  eat 
two  pieces  of  bread  with  a  slice  of  cheese  between. 

"Are  yer  cold?" 

Primrose,  busy  eating  and  thinking,  did  not  answer. 

Dick  repeated  the  question,  loudly.  "I  say,  are  yer 
cold?" 

"Oh !     No.     No,  thank  you,  Dick." 

Dick  chuckled.  "Come  and  snuggle  inside  my  over- 
coat, if  y'are" ;  and  he  opened  the  voluminous  garment 
hospitably. 

"No,     thank    you,"     said     Primrose,    lightly     and 


238  A  LITTLE  MORE 

brightly.  "I  should  be  afraid  to  lose  myself  inside  a 
tent  of  that  size." 

"Haw-haw.     Come  and  set  on  my  knee  then." 

"No,  Dick,  there's  too  much  engine  oil  on  your 
knees." 

"Haw-haw.  I'll  lay  me  'an'kerchief  crost  'em.  Come 
on.  Why  not?  I'm  old  enough  to  be  yer  fawther." 

And  this  was  true.  Dick,  like  most  other  'bus- 
drivers  at  this  late  period  of  the  war,  had  passed 
middle  life;  but  it  was  Primrose's  peculiar  misfortune 
that  she  exercised  a  sort  of  fatal  fascination  over 
elderly  gentlemen.  From  the  very  first  journey  she 
had  known  that  she  must  be  on  her  guard  with  this 
old  bear,  and  it  was  not  the  least  of  her  difficulties, 
the  keeping  of  Dick  in  his  place  without  offending  him. 
A  row  with  Dick  would  put  the  lid  on  everything. 
Moreover,  Dick  as  well  as  many  other  male  employees 
of  the  company,  resented  the  engagement  of  young 
females  at  the  same  high  wages  that  they  themselves 
were  receiving.  Thus  there  was  hostility  as  well  as 
affection  for  her  to  combat.  Dick  could  pass  rapidly 
from  amiable  badinage  to  growling  ferocity. 

"Come  on.     I'm  a  married  man  too." 

"That  goes  without  saying,"  said  Primrose,  gaily. 
"They're  not  likely  to  have  allowed  a  person  of  your 
merit  to  remain  a  bachelor." 

"Haw-haw." 

"And  I'm  sure  you've  got  a  very  nice  wife,  Dick. 
You  must  never  forget  your  good  fortune — not  even 
for  half  a  minute." 

But  this  allusion  to  his  domestic  happiness  made  Dick 
moody,  if  it  did  not  actually  huff  him.  He  began  to 
growl. 


ADVERSITY  239 

"Fawthers  of  families,"  he  grumbled,  as  if  to  him- 
self;  "and  then  come  and  take  the  bread  out  of  their 
children's  mouths.  Same  pay,  if  you  please.  Look 
here,"  he  said  very  loudly.  "If  I  had  me  way  with  you 
girls,  I'd  slap  all  your  trousers  and  send  you  home 
again." 

"Oh,  thank  you  for  nothing,"  said  Primrose,  hotly. 

"Yes,  I  would" ;  and  he  continued  to  growl.  "What 
are  their  expenses?  They've  on'y  themselves  to  keep. 
I've  people  dependent  on  me,  I  have." 

"And  how  d'you  know  I  haven't  people  dependent  on 
me?" 

"Gammon." 

Next  moment  they  were  chipping  at  each  other 
sharply ;  treble  and  bass ;  nag,  nag,  nag. 

But  another  'bus  had  arrived  at  the  terminus;  and 
its  driver  and  conductor  came  into  the  shelter.  They 
were  both  men,  two  more  bears,  as  big  as  Dick. 

"Nah-nah,"  said  one  of  them  facetiously,  interrupt- 
ing the  squabble.  "Give  him  a  kiss  and  be  friends. 
No  quarreling.  Conductor  and  driver  is  more  like 
husband  and  wife  than  anything  else  nowadays.  I 
ain't  got  my  bit  o'  fluff  aboard  yet;  but  no  doubt  I 
shall  have  one  served  out  to  me  before  long.  A  'bus 
don't  seem  in  the  fashion  without  a  packet  o'  hairpins 
on  the  back  step." 

"Yes,"  said  Dick,  "she's  earned  my  'bus  a  nickname. 
They  call  us  Beauty  and  the  Beast." 

"Lor9,  I  don't  think  it's  fair  to  call  her  that.  I 
rather  like  the  look  of  her." 

And  the  three  men  chaffed  Primrose  roughly,  till 
another  'bus  arrived.  The  arrival  of  the  second  'bus 
meant  that  Primrose  and  Dick  must  start  again.  The 


240  A  LITTLE  MORE 

time-keeper  called  to  them,  and  they  were  about  to 
leave  the  shelter  when  a  travelling  inspector  looked  in. 

This  higher  type  of  official  was  always  a  dreaded 
visitor.  He  and  his  kind  flitted  here  and  there, 
popped  out  of  one  'bus  into  another,  fell  on  you  from 
the  skies. 

He  too  made  mock  of  Primrose;  not  rudely  as  the 
others,  but  in  more  deadly  fashion.  He  said  it  was  a 
mystery  to  him  how  she  had  ever  been  "passed,"  since 
she  did  not  seem  strong  enough  for  such  arduous  work 
— "too  much  of  a  flibberty-jibbet  to  bear  the  fatigue 
of  it";  and  when  Primrose  pleaded  and  protested  he 
only  nodded  his  head  and  laughed.  Then  Primrose 
appealed  despairingly  to  her  mate. 

"Don't  be  mean,  Dick.     Speak  up  for  me." 

"She's  all  right,"  said  Dick  grudgingly,  as  he  pulled 
on  his  gloves.  "I've  no  complaints." 

"Say  more  than  that,  Dick.  Say  I  do  my  work  as 
well  as  a  man  could." 

Dick  looked  at  her,  then  gave  a  magnanimous  growl. 

"So  she  does,"  said  Dick.  "I've  known  men  do  it 
worse.  And  she's  a  rare  good  plucked  'un." 

But  it  was  all  no  use.  The  inspector  made  a  bad 
report,  and  the  next  day  they  took  her  before  grim 
authorities  at  headquarters.  Entreaties  were  without 
avail.  These  gentlemen  listened  to  her  politely  and 
spoke  very  gently  and  deprecatingly,  but  they  told  her 
she  must  go. 

"I'm  sure  you  will  easily  find  something  more  suit- 
able," said  the  spokesman.  "By  your  diction  you 
appear  to  belong  to  the  upper  classes — and  no  doubt 
have  taken  up  this  job  in  a  fantastic  spirit  of  pa- 
triotism. But  is  it  quite  fair  to  girls  who  have  not 


ADVERSITY  241 

your  advantages,  and  to  whom  the  remuneration  may 
be  a  matter  of  some  importance?" 

"Nothing  could  be  further  from  the  truth.  No  one 
can  need  it  more  than " 

But  they  did  not  listen  any  further.  Their  subor- 
dinates told  her  to  draw  a  week's  pay,  to  hand  in  her 
tickets,  number  disk,  and  wallet,  at  a  certain  desk,  and 
to  take  her  uniform  to  such  and  such  a  place. 


CHAPTER  IV 

PRIMROSE  put  on  her  petticoats  again,  and 
sank  a  little  further.  The  new  drop  was  sym- 
bolized by  the  fact  that  she  worked  now  below 
ground,  in  the  basement  of  a  huge  Tottenham  Court 
Road  shop.  These  fundamental  depths  were  used  as 
the  Toy  Bazaar,  and  she  with  a  dozen  other  under- 
paid girls  found  it  no  easy  task  to  get  rid  of  the 
wretched  trumpery  stuff  that  alone  was  obtainable 
after  nearly  four  years  of  war. 

"At  any  rate  we  guarantee  it's  all  made  in  England," 
said  Primrose,  apologetically,  to  the  dreadful  common 
customers.  "It's  a  comfort  to  feel  it  doesn't  come 
from  enemy  countries." 

"I  don't  know  as  it  is  a  comfort,"  said  a  horrid 
woman.  "I  want  the  comfort  of  feeling  I've  got  my 
money's  worth." 

"Would  your  little  boy  like  a  wooden  chicky-biddy 
then?  These  chicky-biddies  were  made  by  some  of  our 
blinded  soldiers." 

"So  I  should  think,"  said  the  woman,  scornfully. 
"Blinded!  And  struck  stupid  too!  Lost  their  hands 
and  made  'em  with  their  feet,  from  the  look  of  them. 
No.  Take  'em  away." 

"What  about  a  train  then?  See!"  Primrose 
stooped,  and  holding  a  quite  abominably  bad  locomotive 
on  a  level  with  the  urchin's  eyes  twirled  the  wheels. 
"Tuff-puff,'  says  the  train.  'Puff-puff-puff  " ;  and 

she  laughed  merrily. 

242 


ADVERSITY  243 

She  laughed  in  these  days  because  she  had  been 
ordered  to  do  so. 

"Selling  toys  ith  really  an  art,"  said  the  manager 
of  the  department,  with  enthusiasm.  He  was  a  Jew. 
"You  got  to  be  merry  and  bright.  With  little  boyth 
and  girlth,  you  got  to  make  yourthelf  a  child  too. 
Another  thing  to  remember !  Women  are  only  grown- 
up children.  That'th  pthychology,  that  ith.  Often- 
times you  can  dithpose  of  an  article  with  a  laugh  when 
argument  will  leave  it  unsold." 

So  Primrose  laughed. 

She  was  on  her  feet  until  six  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
and  after  that  she  had  dressmaker's  work  at  which  she 
sometimes  toiled  half  through  the  night.  No  wonder 
she  looked  tired  when  she  came  to  the  bazaar  of  a 
morning.  But  her  hope  was  that  she  would  soon 
escape  from  the  toys  and  the  cellar. 

A  little  way  further  down  the  road  a  better-class 
establishment  was  doing  a  fine  trade  in  selling  pianos 
to  fabulously  overpaid  munitions-workers,  and  Prim- 
rose had  been  promised  a  place  in  its  show-room  if 
she  could  fit  herself  out  with  a  decent  dress  and  a 
pair  of  steel-buckled  shoes.  To  this  end,  then,  she  was 
scraping,  saving,  and  feverishly  labouring. 

The  rich  rewards  of  her  conductorship  had  not  only 
supplied  the  weekly  dole,  but  had  enabled  her  to  put 
by  a  little,  and  so  far  Violet  too  had  regularly  paid 
her  share  to  the  pool  as  well  as  supported  herself. 

Now,  however,  Violet  defaulted.  The  sisters  used  to 
meet  every  Saturday  and  spend  their  evening  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Welby  in  the  room  over  the  stable, 
where  one  could  hear  Diomed  pulling  his  rack-chain 
and  stamping  his  feet  so  plainly  that  he  seemed  almost 


244  A  LITTLE  MORE 

to  be  one  of  the  party.  On  this  portentous  evening 
Violet  waited  for  Primrose  outside  the  stable  instead 
of  going  up  stairs. 

"Prim,"  she  said  tragically,  "I'm  on  the  rocks.  I 
daren't  look  you  in  the  face,"  and  she  wrung  her  hands. 
"I  haven't  brought  any  money." 

Primrose  said  that  it  did  not  matter  in  the  least, 
because  she  could  very  well  carry  on  unassisted.  But 
she  was  full  of  anxiety  on  Violet's  account. 

"Vi  darling,  can  you  anyhow  manage — I  mean,  for 
yourself  only?" 

"Oh,  rather." 

"What  are  you  doing,  exactly?  Why  won't  you 
tell  me?" 

"Don't  ask,"  said  Violet,  rather  wildly.  "I'm  all 
right.  Whatever  happens,  don't  bother  about  me." 

Then  they  went  upstairs,  and  together  put  a  good 
face  on  it  before  the  old  people. 

But  now  Violet  not  only  defaulted,  she  disappeared. 
Next  Saturday  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Welby  looked  for  her  in 
vain,  and  Primrose  coming  rather  late  reported  that 
she  had  received  a  note  from  her  sister  to  say  she  was 
occupied. 

"I  expect  she's  too  busy  to  get  away,"  said  Prim- 
rose in  cheery  tones.  "Well,  how  wags  the  world  with 
you,  father?  Mother  dear,  here's  the  usual." 

"And  more  welcome  than  ever  it  was,"  said  Mrs. 
Welby.  "Milk  up  twopence.  And  flour — well,  flour, 
I  don't  know  what  it  hasn't  risen  to !" 

"Matches  too !"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "And  tobacco 
likewise."  He  was  filling  his  pipe,  and  he  lit  it  with 
a  screw  of  paper  from  the  little  bit  of  fire.  "Here, 
mother,  put  those  sticks  on  and  make  Prim  a  cup  o' 


ADVERSITY  245 

tea.  I'm  sure  she'll  be  glad  of  it  after  her  walk.  Or 
did  you  tram  it,  dear?" 

"No,  I  walked,"  said  Primrose.  "The  exercise  does 
me  good." 

Then,  smoking  his  pipe,  Mr.  Welby  gave  her  the 
latest  news  about  Root  the  greengrocer,  speaking  of 
his  employer  very  much  as  he  used  to  speak  years  ago 
of  the  venerated  partners  at  the  warehouse.  He  had 
heard  originally  that  Root  was  a  vindictive  greedy 
man,  but  he  could  not  find  that  Root  deserved  such 
epithets.  "The  devil  is  never  as  black  as  he  is  painted, 
my  little  Prim.  Mr.  Root  has  treated  me  with  a  good 
deal  of  consideration.  A  bit  suspicious  at  first,  but 
now  I  think  he  feels  the  satisfaction  of  having  some- 
body honest  and  trustworthy.  He  trusts  me  more 
than  he  did  my  predecessor.  Confidence  begets  con- 
fidence. I  don't  like  his  wife,  and  I  never  shall;  but 
I  make  allowances  for  her.  She  'as  been  imposed  on 
so  often  that  she  feels  she  can't  trust  anybody." 

And  Mr.  Welby  went  on  to  lament  the  fact  that 
there  were  a  great  many  rogues  and  vagabonds  hang- 
ing about  London  nowadays.  He  said  the  explanation 
of  this  regrettable  state  of  affairs  was  very  simple. 
The  war  when  it  started  had  taken  the  best  of  Eng- 
land's manhood;  then,  going  on  so  long,  it  had  taken 
the  second-best,  and  the  third-best ;  and  now  there  was 
nothing  left  but  mere  skulking  riff-raff — or,  what  was 
worse,  men  who  had  entered  the  army  and  been  dis- 
charged for  bad  conduct. 

"I  mention  it  to  show  you  how  careful  one  has  to  be, 
Primrose.  You  beware  of  strangers  of  all  sorts.  If 
men  you  don't  know — no  matter  what  their  age — 
attempt  to  get  into  conversation  with  you,  well,  don't 


246  A  LITTLE  MORE 

be  drawn  into  it.  If  people  ask  you  questions,  pre- 
tending to  show  interest,  turn  it  off  with  a  word,  and 
don't  answer  the  questions.  Don't  never  say  who  you 
are,  or  what  you  are,  or  where  you're  going.  As  the 
song  puts  it,  'Still  keep  something  to  yourself  you 
will  not  tell  to  any.'  " 

"Righto,"  said  Primrose,  sipping  the  cup  of  tea. 
"I'm  delighted,  father,  that  you're  getting  on  so  fa- 
mously. You  do  really  feel  your  feet  under  you?" 

"I  do,  my  dear." 

* 

In  fact  Mr.  Welby  was  getting  along  satisfactorily. 
He  had  had  a  few  accidents — as  when,  during  the 
process  of  "putting-to,"  he  let  the  van  shafts  fall  upon 
the  back  of  Diomed  in  so  startling  a  fashion  that  the 
docile  creature  took  fright  and  galloped  up  the  mews 
with  traces  flying.  Fortunately,  however,  men  at  the 
top  of  the  mews  stopped  the  run-away  and  brought  it 
back.  The  people  of  the  mews  were  very  kind  to  Mr. 
Welby,  helping  him  often,  and  teaching  him  many 
things  that  were  useful  in  the  discharge  of  his 
duties. 

The  conveyance  of  actual  vegetables  was  the  light- 
est part  of  these  duties ;  Mr.  Root  dealt  also  in  coal 
and  mineral  waters,  and  his  van  was  in  great  request 
for  odd  jobs,  such  as  moving  pieces  of  furniture, 
taking  luggage  to  railway  stations,  and  so  on.  Thus 
Mr.  Welby  was  little  concerned  with  the  shop  itself  or 
its  hand-to-hand  trade.  He  did  not  know,  for  instance, 
that  among  occasional  customers  there  was  a  Miss 
Brown  who  kept  a  private  hotel  near  Clapham  Junc- 
tion. 

But  one  morning,  receiving  his  instructions,  he  was 


ADVERSITY  24-7 

given  two  bundles  of  seakale  for  delivery  to  this  lady. 

"Put  them  last  on  your  list,"  said  Mr.  Root,  "and 
get  rid  of  your  coals  and  potatoes  and  all  the  heavy 
stuff  first.  Then  go  on  to  Brown's.  It's  beyond  the 
tram  junction — a  small  road  up  to  the  right." 

"Oh,  I  know  my  way  there,"  said  Mr.  Welby. 

"Then  come  straight  back  and  report.  I've  a  big- 
gish job  for  you  to  do  after  dinner." 

"Very  good,"  said  Mr.  Welby ;  and  he  started  on  his 
round. 

Most  painful  emotions  possessed  him  an  hour  later 
as  he  approached  his  old  home.  He  drove  slower  and 
slower,  and  he  sighed  heavily  when  he  turned  Diomed's 
head  and  left  the  tramlines  behind  him.  It  was  uphill 
now,  so  the  horse  of  its  own  accord  subsided  to  a  walk- 
ing pace. 

At  the  familiar  corner  the  horse  or  the  driver  de- 
cided to  halt  altogether,  and  the  van  remained  motion- 
less while  Mr.  Welby  sat  staring  and  sighing.  There 
was  the  house  in  full  sight  now,  just  as  it  had  always 
been,  except  for  the  fact  that  its  blinds,  as  well  as 
those  of  the  two  houses  on  the  other  side  of  it,  were 
new  and  of  a  bright  red  colour.  Also  there  was  a 
large  board,  set  diagonally  in  the  front  garden,  an- 
nouncing that  it  was  called  now  Hillside,  and  that  it 
professed  to  be  a  high-class  Private  Hotel. 

Minutes  passed  and  still  Mr.  Welby  sat  idle,  merely 
suffering  instead  of  doing  his  job.  All  the  past  had 
returned  to  his  mind.  He  remembered  his  pride  when, 
going  to  the  City  of  a  morning,  he  stood  at  this  corner 
to  look  back  at  the  house;  he  remembered  too  the 
wicked  thoughts  he  had  entertained  when,  looking  at 
the  house  with  old  Nick  at  his  side,  it  had  seemed  to 


248  A  LITTLE  MORE 

him  a  mean  and  poor  little  thing.     It  seemed  to  him  a 
palace  now. 

And  for  the  first  time  shame  overwhelmed  him,  as 
he  sat  there  shrinking  from  the  ordeal  that  lay  before 
him.  It  was  too  bitter  a  humiliation — to  drive  past 
what  had  been  his  own  front  door,  to  stop  at  the  side 
gate,  and  to  carry  vegetables  through  the  tradesman's 
passage,  and  hand  them  in  at  the  kitchen  door;  he, 
who  had  been  master  there,  to  appear  as  a  green- 
grocer's man,  and  deliver  seakale  to  her  who  had  been 
his  servant. 

As  he  thought  of  Sarah,  all  courage  forsook  him. 
He  could  not  face  Sarah.  He  remembered,  too  well, 
how  harshly  and  coldly  he  had  treated  Sarah  in  his 
hours  of  prosperity.  Of  course  he  might  escape  being 
seen  by  Sarah ;  he  could,  with  luck,  hand  in  the  seakale 
to  cook  or  kitchenmaid  and  slink  away  unobserved  by 
their  mistress.  But  the  risk  would  be  too  great. 
Sarah,  like  a  good  manager,  would  be  downstairs  in 
her  kitchen.  She  would  spot  him —  "But,  bless  me, 
who's  this?  Do  my  eyes  deceive  me?  No.  Surely 
not?  Yes,  it  is " 

He  simply  could  not  face  it;  his  emotions  entirely 
overcame  him. 

He  got  down  from  the  van,  and  beckoned  to  a  young 
man  of  the  humblest  class,  who  was  leaning  against  a 
lamp-post  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"See  here,"  he  said  agitatedly  to  the  young  man. 
"Do  me  a  kindness,  and  in  exchange  I'll  give  you  six- 
pence"; and  he  instructed  this  deputy  to  take  the  sea- 
kale  to  the  house,  hand  it  in  with  the  invoice,  and 
return  at  once.  "I  shall  stay  here,"  he  added,  "and 
watch  you  do  it." 


ADVERSITY  249 

The  young  fellow  was  soon  back  again,  but  during 
his  brief  absence  Mr.  Welby  had  been  joined  by  some- 
body else.  This  was  an  older  man,  who  said  he  was 
a  friend  of  the  youth,  and  very  courteously  declared 
that  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  see  his  young  pal  making 
himself  useful.  He  refused  to  allow  Mr.  Welby  to 
part  with  the  promised  sixpence. 

"Ned,"  he  said  severely  to  the  youth,  "you  don't 
need  to  accept  money  for  pe'forming  a  simple  kind- 
ness." Then,  scrutinizing  Mr.  Welby,  he  spoke  with 
respectful  sympathy.  "You'll  excuse  me,  sir,  but 
you're  feeling  ill,  aren't  you?" 

Mr  Welby  confessed  that  something  had  upset  him, 
and  for  a  moment  he  had  come  over  a  bit  queer. 

"Then  you  come  along  with  me,"  said  the  stranger, 
with  a  sort  of  hearty,  impulsive  good-nature.  "It's  a 
tot  of  whisky  you  want  to  pull  you  round,  and  I'm 
going  to  see  you  have  it — at  my  expense  too.  The 
pubs  will  be  just  open.  Here,  Ned,  you  lead  the  horse, 
and  let  the  gentleman  walk  with  me.  Allow  me  to 
offer  you  my  arm,  sir." 

At  the  last  moment,  outside  the  public-house,  Mr. 
Welby  attempted  to  resist  temptation;  saying  he 
thanked  both  the  elder  man  and  the  younger  man  for 
their  kindness,  but  he  could  not  leave  the  horse. 

However,  the  friendly  strangers  prevailed.  They 
helped  him  to  put  the  nose-bag  on  Diomed. 

"Now  he  won't  budge,  guv'nor,"  said  the  youth, 
smiling  at  Mr.  Welby,  while  he  patted  and  caressed 
Diomed  in  an  affectionate  manner.  "He's  got  his 
snack  and  he  knows  his  master  is  close  by.  Animals 
are  very  human,  I  always  think." 

This  was  Mr.  Welby's  first  lapse  for  a  verj  long 


250  A  LITTLE  MORE 

time,  and  it  proved  a  fatal  one.  His  only  excuse  was 
that  his  recent  emotion  had  been  too  much  for  him. 
But  oh,  why  did  not  he  remember  the  wise  advice  he 
had  offered  to  Primrose? 

He  stood  in  the  hateful  little  bar  drinking  with 
these  strangers,  talking  to  them  more  and  more  freely. 
They  stood  round  him,  admiring  him,  flattering  him, 
saying  anybody  could  see  with  half  an  eye  that  he  was 
a  broken-down  gentleman.  A  third  stranger,  a  tall 
man,  who  wore  a  football  jersey  instead  of  a  shirt 
under  his  ragged  jacket,  was  especially  full  of  compli- 
ments. He  said  again  and  again  that  it  was  an  honour 
to  pay  for  the  refreshment  of  such  a  real  top-class 
old  gentleman. 

And  Mr.  Welby  told  them  his  story,  explaining  how 
badly  he  had  been  treated  by  the  law  of  the  land.  He 
went  on  talking  till  one  after  another  they  slipped 
away.  For  a  few  minutes  he  was  talking  alone  to  the 
youth's  elderly  pal,  and  then  he  was  talking  to  him- 
self with  nobody  there  at  all. 

"Outside,"  said  the  barman,  leaning  over  the  bar 
and  tapping  him  on  the  arm.  "You've  had  your  day's 
ration,  and  I'm  not  going  to  serve  you  with  any  more." 

"Don't  talk  to  me  like  that,"  said  Mr.  Welby  rather 
thickly,  and  in  a  slow  dignified  manner  he  went  out 
to  the  street. 

The  crisp  fresh  air  for  a  moment  made  him  dizzy, 
then  next  moment  he  was  completely  sobered  by  the 
shock  of  fear.  Diomed  and  the  van  were  nowhere  to 
be  seen.  He  trotted  hurriedly  up  and  down  the  street, 
stood  panting  and  staring  at  various  corners,  but  they 
as  well  as  the  strangers  had  vanished  utterly. 


ADVERSITY  251 

"What  you  think  they  been  and  done  with  them?" 
he  asked  a  policeman. 

"Why,  stolen  them,"  said  the  policeman. 

"Never!"  said  Mr.  Welby,  in  the  utmost  perturba- 
tion. "Surely  you  don't  think  they'd  have  the  daring 
to  steal  a  van  and  a  horse?" 

The  policeman  laughed.  "There  was  three  lorries 
and  a  traction  engine  pinched  complete,  up  there  be- 
yond the  Common,  only  a  week  ago." 

Mr.  Welby  went  to  the  nearest  police  station  to  give 
particulars  of  this  daring  daylight  outrage,  and 
stopped  to  tell  all  policemen  about  it  as  he  hurried 
home  to  tell  Mr.  Root. 

Root  took  the  news  badly.  Indeed,  the  latent  vin- 
dictiveness  of  Root  at  once  rose  to  the  surface.  He, 
too,  sought  the  assistance  of  the  police,  and  he  gave 
Mr.  Welby  in  charge  to  them  as  principal  party  to 
the  robbery. 

He  was  brought  before  a  magistrate  next  day,  and 
the  vindictive  Root  made  everything  seem  as  black  as 
possible  for  him.  Mrs.  Root  also  was  implacably  hard 
against  him.  Remanded  without  bail,  he  lay  in  his 
cell  and  the  cruel  days  passed  while  Mrs.  Welby  went 
hither  and  thither  desperately  seeking  aid.  She  and 
her  husband  had  long  since  rendered  themselves  such 
unwelcome  visitors  at  the  office  of  Mr.  Rolls,  in  Lin- 
coln's Inn  Fields,  that  a  very  strict  guard  was  kept 
there  to  prevent  either  of  them  from  obtaining  access 
to  the  principal ;  but  Mrs.  Welby  beat  down  all  opposi- 
tion. 

Mr.  Rolls,  waving  his  eye-glass,  reiterated  the  assur- 
ance of  the  sympathy  he  had  always  felt  for  the  whole 


252  A  LITTLE  MORE 

family.  Nevertheless,  he  could  not  take  up  the  case. 
No,  this  sort  of  thing  was  altogether  alien  to  the 
habits  of  his  firm.  Mrs.  Welby  must  apply  to  a  police 
court  practitioner.  Nor  could  Mr.  Rolls  offer  any 
pecuniary  assistance;  he  was  very  sorry,  but  the 
family,  as  Mrs.  Welby  should  know,  were  already  very 
much  in  his  debt — for  the  costs  incurred  with  regard 
to  the  bankruptcies  and  the  settlement  of  affairs.  In- 
deed, these  matters  were  not  yet  settled ;  they  were  still 
"in  the  office,"  receiving  frequent  attention,  adding  to 
the  debt.  No,  Mr.  Rolls  had  done  a  great  deal  for  the 
Welbys,  and  he  really  could  not  do  any  more — not 
even  a  very  little  more. 

One  of  his  clerks  outside  the  presence  chamber  gave 
Mrs.  Welby  the  name  and  adress  of  a  solicitor  who 
had  long  experience  of  crime,  and  who  would  get  Mr. 
Welby  off  if  there  were  "a  dog's  chance  of  saving  him." 

"But  my  husband  is  innocent,"  protested  Mrs. 
Welby;  "as  innocent  as  the  babe  unborn." 

"Well,  Mr.  Smart  is  your  man,  either  way,"  said 
the  clerk. 

Mrs.  Welby  found  this  Mr.  Smart,  but  was  thrown 
into  further  despair  by  his  demand  for  his  fees  in 
advance  before  going  into  court.  Only  such  a  few 
pounds  and  shillings ;  Mr.  Welby's  freedom  and  reputa- 
tion hanging  in  the  balance,  and  credit  for  the  trifling 
sum  absolutely  refused! 

It  was  Primrose  who  came  to  the  rescue. 

"Fortunately,  I  had  a  little  put  by,"  she  said,  as  she 
placed  the  money  in  her  mother's  trembling  hand. 

Mr.  Welby  was  got  off,  not,  alas,  with  flying  colours ; 
and  he  left  the  court  on  his  wife's  arm  crushed  and 
broken  in  spirit.  He  returned  to  the  court  bursting 


ADVERSITY  253 

with  indignation,  to  inform  the  magistrate  that  Root 
had  seized  upon  and  sold  his  sticks  of  furniture.  As 
to  this,  the  magistrate  said  he  could  do  nothing,  but 
Mr.  Welby  had  his  remedy  at  law;  he  told  Mr.  Welby 
meantime  to  sit  down,  and  a  little  later  the  police- 
court  missionary  came  and  sat  beside  him.  This  gen- 
tleman was  kinder,  or  more  powerful  than  the  magis- 
trate; he  gave  a  donation  from  the  box  and  a  letter 
to  an  institution  at  Hammersmith. 

Thus  another  dark  wave  passed  over  the  heads  of 
the  Welbys,  submerging  them  deeper.  Mr.  Welby  was 
homeless  and  out  of  work;  Violet  had  disappeared; 
poor  little  Primrose  by  denuding  herself  had  been 
forced  to  postpone  all  her  hopes  of  the  new  dress  and 
the  better  place. 

She  worked  harder  than  ever,  cutting  down  expenses 
in  the  direction  of  nourishment,  fighting  the  world 
gamely  on  an  often  empty  stomach.  One  evening,  tired 
and  hungry,  she  came  into  an  A.B.C.  shop  before  going 
on  to  collect  her  nightly  task  from  the  dressmaker; 
and  sitting  at  one  of  the  marble  tables  she  opened  her 
purse  on  her  knees,  to  be  quite  sure  that  she  had  made 
no  mistake.  The  purse  contained  five  pennies,  a  half- 
penny, a  packet  of  needles,  and  nothing  more.  She 
laid  the  five  pennies  on  the  table,  put  her  purse  and 
gloves  on  top  of  them,  and  then  studiously  examined 
the  bill  of  fare.  Cup  of  chocolate,  fourpence;  small 
roll,  one  penny !  That  would  be  the  most  sustaining 
repast  she  could  get  for  her  money,  and  presently  she 
gave  the  order  for  it. 

"One  chocolate,  and  roll  and  butter?"  said  the  wait- 
ress. 

"No,  not  butter,"  said  Primrose.     "I  won't  require 


254  A  LITTLE  MORE 

any  butter.  Just  a  roll — a  small  roll,  please — the 
penny  roll,  not  the  two-penny." 

And  she  sat  there  waiting,  gnawed  by  hunger.  Look- 
ing about  once,  she  fancied  that  a  pale  young  man 
seated  at  a  table  in  front  of  hers  was  observing  her; 
he  had  a  newspaper,  but  it  seemed  to  her  that  instead 
of  reading  it  he  watched  her.  She  immediately  turned 
her  eyes,  and,  picking  up  the  bill  of  fare  again,  glanced 
through  it.  But  the  printed  names  of  the  solid  hot 
dishes  made  her  feel  sick  with  longing.  Why  were 
they  making  her  wait  such  a  time?  Why  wouldn't 
they  bring  her  something  to  eat?  She  put  down  the 
too  alluring  sheet,  leaned  back  against  the  red  velvet 
behind  her,  and  with  half-closed  eyes  looked  at  the 
carved  beams  and  glass  panels  of  the  ceiling. 

While  she  maintained  this  attitude  the  pale  young 
man  was  watching  her  over  the  top  of  his  newspaper. 
As  soon  as  she  came  in  he  had  noticed  her  fair  hair 
and  blue  eyes,  and  something  in  her  expression  that 
was  at  once  defiant  and  piteously  childlike.  Now  he 
noticed  her  whiteness,  her  hollow  cheeks,  her  too  sharply 
pointed  little  chin. 

Then  Primrose  changed  her  attitude.  Slowly  but 
decisively,  she  rolled  over  sideways  and  lay  without 
moving  on  the  red-velvet  seat. 

"Here.  Quick,"  said  the  pale  young  man,  spring- 
ing up  and  going  to  her.  "This  young  lady  has 
fainted." 

Other  people  went  to  her,  including  the  manageress, 
who  sat  her  up,  slapped  her  hands,  and  dealt  with  her 
in  a  kind,  businesslike  manner.  During  the  general 
confusion  and  solicitude  the  young  man  unobtrusively 
picked  up  her  purse  and  opened  it.  He  shut  it  pres- 


ADVERSITY  255 

ently,  and  a  moment  after  he  had  done  so  the  man- 
ageress saw  it  in  his  hand. 

"That's  her  purse,  isn't  it?"  said  the  manageress 
sharply  and  suspiciously.  "Leave  that  alone,  please." 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  man  feebly,  still  holding  it. 
"See,  she's  coming  to,"  and  as  Primrose  opened  her 
eyes  he  laid  the  purse  on  the  table. 

"Silly  of  me,"  said  Primrose  to  the  manageress. 
"I  am  so  sorry.  But  it's  very  hot  in  here,  don't  you 
think?" 

"No,  nothing  to  mention,"  said  the  manageress 
kindly.  "But  you're  tired,  perhaps.  You  do  look  a 
little  tired." 

"I'm  so  sorry  to  have  given  trouble,"  said  Primrose, 
and  she  clutched  at  her  purse,  as  though  instead  of 
being  empty  it  was  full,  and  moved  her  gloves  to  see 
that  the  five  pennies  were  safe. 

Everybody  had  sat  down  again.  The  cup  of  choc- 
olate and  the  small  roll  were  brought  to  her,  and  as 
soon  as  possible  she  finished  her  meal  and  hurried  from 
the  place. 

"Are  you  quite  recovered?"  said  the  manageress,  at 
the  door. 

"Quite,"  said  Primrose  firmly,  "and  so  much  obliged 
to  you  for  your  kindness." 

In  less  than  an  hour  she  was  in  her  miserable  attic, 
with  a  pile  of  work  that  she  had  brought  back  from 
the  dressmaker.  She  felt  "swimmy"  about  the  head, 
and  as  hungry  as  ever;  but  she  set  herself  resolutely 
to  the  work.  She  stitched  and  stitched,  until  she  broke 
her  needle.  Then  she  reached  for  her  purse,  and 
opened  it. 

It  was  no  longer  an  empty  purse.     It  contained,  as 


256  A  LITTLE  MORE 

well  as  the  halfpenny  and  the  packet  of  needles,  a 
couple  of  one-pound  notes. 

Primrose  stood  up  to  think  about  this  miracle,  and 
she  grew  hot  and  cold  as  she  thought.  There  could 
be  only  one  explanation.  While  she  was  unconscious 
somebody  in  the  A. B.C.  shop  had  put  the  money  in 
her  purse;  somebody,  guessing  at  her  abject  poverty, 
had  taken  pity  on  her.  Some  soft-hearted  person 
had  given  her  the  money  in  pity — in  pity.  How  hor- 
rible and  disgusting! 

What  could  she  do?  She  must  get  the  money  back 
into  the  hands  of  this  well-meaning  and  unintentionally 
insulting  person  without  a  minute's  avoidable  delay. 
But  how?  Take  it  back  to  the  manageress  and  leave 
it  in  her  custody — ask  her  to  pin  up  a  notice  saying 
it  was  there  to  be  claimed?  Perhaps  it  was  the  man- 
ageress herself  who  had  done  the  deed.  Or  that  woman 
who  put  her  hat  straight  for  her?  Or  the  man  with 
the  long  beard?  He  looked  stupid  and  benevolent. 
Oh,  what  was  she  to  do? 

But  then  an  impalpable  tremendous  force  asserted 
itself,  not  merely  suggesting  but  commanding  her  what 
to  do.  This  force  was  hunger.  And  it  sent  her  down 
the  long  flights  of  stairs,  out  into  the  street  to  a 
baker's  shop. 

She  came  back  after  her  elemental,  instinct-driven 
excursion,  hugging  a  loaf  from  which  she  cut  an  enor- 
mous slice.  But  she  shuddered  as  she  bit.  For  the 
first  time  in  her  life  she  was  eating  such  food.  It  was 
the  bread  of  charity. 

But  it  tasted  all  right:  just  like  any  other  bread. 

One   morning   soon   after  these   events   she   sold   a 


ADVERSITY  257 

wooden  elephant  to  a  pale  shy  young  man,  who  had 
wandered  vaguely  round  the  bazaar  until  he  saw  her. 

In  fact,  although  of  course  she  did  not  know  it,  he 
had  wandered  all  over  the  establishment  from  depart- 
ment to  department  searching  for  her,  after  having 
followed  her  to  the  doors ;  and  he  had  come  down  here 
to  the  basement  as  a  forlorn  hope. 

"Yes,"  he  said  shyly,  "that's  excellent.  I'll  send  it 
to  a  little  nephew  of  mine  at  Weymouth.  He'll  be 
delighted  with  it." 

"It  is  quite  good,"  said  Primrose,  with  a  gay  smile, 
"when  you  think  it  was  made  by  those  poor  fellows"; 
and,  looking  at  him,  she  ceased  to  smile;  because  she 
had  a  sudden  and  oddly  uncomfortable  feeling  that  the 
customer  was  not  really  a  total  stranger,  but  in  some 
queer  dreamlike  way  familiar  to  her. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  said,  "poor  lads,  poor  lads.  Now  I 
wonder  if  you  would  mind  noting  my  name — in  case  I 
should  want  to  write  for  anything?  Merritt — Geoffrey 
Merritt" ;  and  he  also  gave  her  his  address,  which  she 
carefully  booked.  It  was  in  the  neighbourhood. 

To  her  surprise  he  returned  next  day. 

"Miss  Welby,  forward,"  called  the  manager.  "Thith 
gentleman — you  therved  him  yesterday  with  one  of 
those  carved  elephants,  and  he  wishes  another  of 
them." 

"Yes,  Miss  Welby,"  said  the  young  man,  very  shyly, 
"if  you  please — or  perhaps  a  pig  this  time.  A  pig 
will  do  just  as  well.  I'll  send  it  to  my  niece.  You 
remember  me,  don't  you?  I  gave  you  my  name." 

"Yes.     Mr. — er — Merritt,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes.  Thank  you.  That  pig  over  there  will  do 
beautifully." 


258  A  LITTLE  MORE 

And  he  took  away  the  pig  and  left  Primrose  won- 
dering. 

She  met  him  in  the  street  after  this;  and  he  took 
off  his  hat  and  said  Good-evening  as  he  passed  by. 
She  had  a  sensation  of  his  wanting  to  talk  to  her,  of 
his  intending  to  do  so  and  then  not  daring.  Evidently 
he  was  a  great  deal  shyer  than  most  people. 

But  next  evening  he  did  it. 

"How  are  you,  Miss  Welby?"  He  had  come  up 
behind,  overtaking  her,  so  that  they  were  walking  on 
together  with  a  kind  of  fatal  naturalness.  "The  rain 
has  kept  off;  but  it's  very  cold,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  is,"  said  Primrose,  in  a  tone  as  cold  as  the 
weather. 

"But  there  are  a  great  number  of  people  about, 
aren't  there?  London's  always  crowded  nowadays." 

"Yes,"  said  Primrose,  in  the  same  tone. 

"The  worst,"  said  Mr.  Merritt,  "is  when  you  feel 
all  alone  in  the  crowd.  I  often  have  that  feeling. 
And  I'm  afraid  you  do  too." 

Without  answering,  Primrose  slackened  her  pace  and 
dropped  behind  him. 

He  turned  at  once,  and  spoke  still  shyly  but  with 
grave  earnestness.  "Miss  Welby,  please  don't  miscon- 
strue my  motives.  I  do  beg  of  you  not  for  an  instant 
to  suppose  that  it  is  vulgar  curiosity  that  made  me 
try  to  find  out  who  you  were.  Believe  me,  only  the 
most  ordinary  friendly  motives " 

"Rather  out  of  place,"  said  Primrose  sternly,  "since 
we  don't  happen  to  be  friends." 

"Why  shouldn't  we  be?  If  people  can  be  useful  to 
one  another — above  all,  in  these  horrible  times.  Miss 
Welby,  don't  allow  mere  convention  to "  And  he 


ADVERSITY  259 

spoke  with  such  eagerness  that  he  did  not  seem  able 
to  finish  his  sentences.  "I  believe  I  could  be  useful  to 
you.  What  you're  doing  at  that  shop  isn't  worth 
while It  makes  me  indignant.  The  pay  is  dis- 
gracefully insufficient — not  enough  to  keep  body  and 
soul  together.  Miss  Welby,  I  was  so  sorry — so  dread- 
fully sorry  for  you — when  I  saw  you  sitting  all  alone 
at  that  teashop.  Why,  I  felt " 

"Stop,"  cried  Primrose.  The  blood  had  rushed  to 
her  head,  and  instinctively  she  raised  her  hands  and 
for  a  moment  hid  her  face  with  them.  "It  was  you," 
she  said ;  "it  was  you  who  put  the  money  in  my  purse." 

Mr.  Merritt  said  he  could  not  deny  the  fact,  adding 
that  he  knew  he  had  taken  a  liberty.  He  too  was 
blushing  now,  in  much  confusion,  but  war-time  dark- 
ness prevented  either  from  seeing  the  other's  blushes. 

"I  know  it  was  somewhat  of  a  liberty,"  he  repeated 
humbly. 

"Somewhat!"  said  Primrose,  hard  and  wrathful.  "It 
was  a  great  liberty — an  intolerable  liberty."  Then 
her  voice  quavered  and  lost  all  strength.  "I  have 
spent  it — but  I  shall  pay  it  back  to  you,  every  penny." 

"That  must  be  as  you  wish,"  said  Mr.  Merritt 
eagerly.  "By  all  means,  a  loan — if  you  prefer  it. 
Only  please  don't  be  in  a  hurry  to  repay  me.  Not  till 
it's  altogether  convenient." 

"You're  very  kind,"  mumbled  Primrose.  Uncon- 
sciously she  was  walking  on  with  him  again.  "I  have 
your  address,"  she  added  firmly.  "'So  I  know  where 
to  send  it." 

"Exactly.  And,  Miss  Welby,  you  won't  break  off 
our  acquaintanceship,  will  you?  You  won't  be  gov- 
erned by  that  old  conventional  nonsense,  and  just  be- 


260  A  LITTLE  MORE 

cause  we  haven't  been  properly  introduced —  Remem- 
ber the  times.  The  master  of  ceremonies  has  gone  on 
other  duty.  I  left  him  dressed  in  khaki,  at  the  place 

I've  come  from In  his  absence,  it  is  destiny  that 

makes  introductions." 

He  went  on  talking,  shaking  off  his  extreme  shyness ; 
and  before  they  parted  he  asked  her  if  she  would  be 
good  enough  to  come  out  into  the  country  with  him 
one  Sunday,  for  a  quiet  treat. 

"You  will  be  as  safe  with  me  as  if  you  were  my  own 
sister,"  he  said  earnestly.  "That  sort  of  thing  doesn't 
appeal  to  me";  and  he  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand, 
as  if  thrusting  away  trivial  or  obnoxious  matters. 
"I  have  two  sisters — one  married,  at  Weymouth,  at 
our  old  home;  and  the  other  up  here  in  London,  work- 
ing for  her  living,  like  you." 


CHAPTER  V 

ON  a  bright  fine  afternoon  towards  the  middle 
of  March,  Jack  Welby  tramped  across  the 
high  tableland  between  Bapaume  and  Arras, 
and  came  along  a  ridge  to  what  had  been  the  village 
of  Beau-Sejour  until  the  fire  of  friend  and  foe  changed 
it  into  a  heap  of  rubble  and  brickdust.  His  battalion 
was  out  of  the  line  and  he  had  obtained  a  pass  for  the 
purpose  of  visiting  the  Casualty  Clearing  Station — or 
C.C.S.,  as  they  called  it  for  short — that  was  established 
between  the  village  and  the  river. 

All  this  was  ground  from  which  the  Germans  re- 
treated early  in  1917,  and  as  they  were  never  likely 
to  come  back  again  it  had  been  organized  in  a  won- 
derfully complete  manner. 

"That's  right,"  said  a  medical  orderly.  "Wait  here, 
Sergeant,  if  you  please." 

He  stood  there,  the  typical  war-tried  infantryman, 
in  light  order  but  with  steel  hat  and  box  mask;  sun- 
burnt and  erect;  looking  four  inches  bigger  round  the 
chest  than  the  sometime  city  clerk,  and  half  a  head 
taller  than  that  dissipated  Piccadilly  lounger;  carry- 
ing on  his  face,  too,  an  expression  that  neither  of 
them  had  ever  worn — an  expression  slowly  stamped 
upon  it  by  nearly  four  years  of  patience  and  endur- 
ance. He  stood  waiting  and  admiring. 

The  C.C.S.  formed  a  camp  to  itself;  the  large  tents, 
like  the  ground-floor  wards  of  a  vast  hospital, 

stretched  in  blocks  or  streets  with  new  duck-boards  for 

261 


262 

pavement,  until,  beyond  all  the  tents,  one  saw  the  rail- 
way line  and  special  sidings  on  which  the  red-cross 
trains  could  come  close,  to  be  loaded  with  the  wounded. 
Medical  officers  in  their  smart  uniforms  passed  to  and 
fro,  speaking  to  wounded  men  who  sat  or  lay  outside 
the  tents ;  everywhere  there  was  a  quiet  bustle  of  me- 
thodic work;  and  one  had  an  impression  of  whiteness, 
cleanness,  comfort  that  soothed  one's  eyes.  But  the 
most  refreshing  sight  to  anybody  coming  straight 
from  the  trenches  was  provided  by  the  nurses.  These 
girls  in  their  clean  white  frocks,  showing  their  stock- 
inged ankles,  tapping  the  duck-boards  with  their  high 
heels,  amazed  and  dazzled  one.  It  seemed  incredible  to 
find  them  here,  in  this  wilderness,  within  a  few  miles  of 
the  front  line ;  ministering  angels  who  risked  their  lives 
every  day,  every  hour,  and  yet  looked  so  cool  and 
calm  and  jolly  all  the  time.  Only,  as  Jack  asked  him- 
self, ought  they  really  to  have  been  brought  up  so  far? 
Was  it  right? 

This  lot  was  kept  very  much  alert  by  their  matron, 
a  brisk  plump  woman  of  forty-five  who  wore  a  pince- 
nez  ;  a  kindly  creature  but  a  strict  disciplinarian.  She 
even  made  the  girls  drill,  forming  two-deep,  forming 
fours,  and  so  on,  and  would  march  them  right  round 
the  camp  for  the  good  of  their  health  before  breakfast. 

The  doctor-colonel  in  charge  was  also  rather  a  char- 
acter; grey-headed,  peppery,  overbearing,  but  highly 
skilled  and  doggedly  brave. 

It  chanced  that  Jack  encountered  both  these  poten- 
tates before  he  was  joined  by  the  person  for  whom  he 
waited.  Something  a  little  wrong  had  upset  the  colonel 
— a  newspaper  on  the  ground,  when  it  ought  to  have 
been  on  a  table — a  pin  out  of  place — something — and 


ADVERSITY  263 

he  came  out  of  a  large  tent  storming.  The  matron, 
recognizable  by  her  red  bodice,  bustled  forward  to 
appease  his  wrath,  and  docile  courteous  medical  officers 
assisted. 

"Very  good,"  said  the  colonel,  appeased.  "But 
what's  this?"  and  he  stormed  again  at  the  sight  of 
Jack.  "Why  is  he  standing  there?  I  won't  have 
wounded  men  kept  waiting — not  a  minute." 

Jack  in  his  turn  appeased  him  by  explaining  that  he 
was  not  wounded.  He  was  only  waiting  to  see  a  nurse 
— Nurse  Welby — his  wife. 

"Is  Nurse  Welby  your  wife?"  said  the  colonel,  and 
he  smiled.  "Then  let  me  tell  you,  Sergeant,  I  consider 
you  a  very  lucky  fellow." 

"I  know  I  am,  sir,"  said  Jack,  smiling  and  showing 
his  teeth,  which  looked  very  white  in  his  bronzed  face. 

"Here  she  is,"  said  the  matron,  and  Amabel  came 
along  the  duck-boards.  Then  the  colonel,  the  matron, 
and  the  officers,  all  smiled  at  Amabel.  It  seemed  that 
Amabel  was  something  of  a  favourite. 

She  too  had  changed.  She  too  looked  bigger  and 
taller.  She  had  been  just  a  pretty  but  rather  anaemic 
girl.  She  was  now  a  graceful  full-blooded  woman. 
There  was  courage  in  her  eyes,  health  in  her  cheeks, 
the  easy  dignity  that  comes  from  strength  in  the  car- 
riage of  her  head  and  the  poise  of  her  whole  body. 
Her  face  lit  up  most  beautifully  at  sight  of  Jack,  and 
her  grave  sweet  smile  told  him  of  a  love  that  had 
purified  itself  in  deepening. 

They  walked  away  together,  down  a  dusty  road  by 
parked  lorries  and  motor  ambulances,  past  horse  lines 
of  artillery,  and  climbing  the  hillside  found  some  of 
the  vacated  German  trenches,  where  they  sat  hand  in 


264  A  LITTLE  MORE 

hand  on  an  almost  obliterated  parapet  and  were  per- 
fectly faultlessly  happy. 

"It's  heaven  to  be  with  you,  Mab";  and  he  pressed 
her  long  firm  fingers. 

There  was  no  hugging  or  cuddling;  they  kissed  once 
and  no  more.  Something  in  this  air  of  France  made 
impossible  all  that  business  of  clinging  and  slobbering 
that  one  saw  on  railway  platforms  in  England  when 
leave  trains  arrived  and  departed.  People  were  less 
individual,  more  universal.  That  uplift  which  at  home 
seemed  slowly  to  have  lost  its  force  was  as  strong  as 
ever  out  here.  It  was  perceptible  in  nearly  everything 
that  these  two  said  to  each  other. 

Jack  spoke  to  her  of  still  another  disappointment 
about  his  commission.  Again  his  papers  had  mis- 
carried. Other  fellows  by  the  round  dozen  were  passed 
over  his  head;  but  always  recommendations  concerning 
himself  met  with  accidents  or  neglect,  and  he  was  left 
with  his  three  stripes  and  nothing  more.  He  said  he 
thought  he  had  been  rather  unfairly  treated;  then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed,  adding  that  he 
did  not  care  on  his  own  account,  but  only  on  Amabel's. 
"Sure  you  aren't  ashamed  of  me?" 

"Jack!" 

"Sure  you  don't  mind,  you  old  dear?" 

"Why  should  I  mind?  Among  all  who  understand, 
you  will  have  earned  far  far  greater  honour  by  seeing 
the  war  through  without  a  Sam  Brown  belt.  /  honour 
you,  Jack — /  understand;  and  all  I  care  for  is  that 
when  the  end  comes  you  may  still  be  spared  to  me. 
And  you  will  be  spared.  Something  has  always  told 
me  so.  That's  why  I  am  never  afraid."  She  was 
looking  far  ahead  across  the  plateau  to  the  vague 


ADVERSITY  265 

sunlit  distances  where  one  saw  white  puffs  of  smoke 
showing  like  balls  of  cotton  wool  and  swiftly  melting 
into  the  sunlight.  "Jack,  I  know  that  we  are  not  go- 
ing to  lose  each  other."  And  she  turned  her  eyes  to 
him,  limpid  as  water,  shining  like  lamps. 

They  possessed  no  money  except  their  pay,  but 
nevertheless  they  talked  with  complete  confidence  of 
the  future.  They  intended  after  the  war  to  live  some- 
where in  the  country,  and  Jack  had  no  doubt  whatever 
that  he  would  be  able  to  maintain  a  comfortable  little 
home. 

"I  mean  the  real  country,"  he  said;  "the  very  depth 
of  it,  where  we  shall  be  right  up  against  Nature  itself. 
I've  learnt  all  about  intensive  agriculture  from  these 
French  people.  I'll  be  the  farmer  and  his  merry  men 
all  rolled  into  one,  and  you  shall  feed  the  poultry, 
milk  the  cows,  and  make  the  butter.  Will  you  like 
that,  Mab?" 

"I  shall  love  it,"  she  said,  smiling.  •  "But,  Jack,  the 
end  is  not  yet";  and  her  face  grew  serious,  and  again 
she  looked  far  away  towards  the  enemy's  position  and 
listened  to  the  sound  of  his  guns.  "We  mustn't  think 

of  ourselves,  Jack We  must  forget  ourselves  till 

the  great  task  is  done." 

"We'll  have  'em  beat  to  a  frazzle  by  next  Christ- 
mas," said  Jack  cheerily. 

"I  hope  so  too.  Why  don't  you  smoke  your  pipe, 
dear?" 

Jack  lit  his  pipe,  took  off  his  steel  hat,  lolled  luxur- 
iously; and  they  talked  of  the  Welby  family. 

"I  heard  from  the  governor  last  week,"  said  Jack. 

"And  I  had  a  very  jolly  letter  from  Primrose,"  said 
Amabel. 


266  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"The  dear  old  boy  wrote  in  glorious  spirits.  Mab, 
I  can't  tell  you  what  a  comfort  it  has  been  to  feel  all 
the  time  that  they,  at  any  rate,  are  all  right;  all  of 
them  contented  and  happy,  and  doing  so  well.  It's 
half  the  battle  to  a  soldier  not  to  be  anxious  about 
the  people  he  has  left  behind  him  at  home." 

"Your  father  has  some  new  post,  hasn't  he?  What 
is  it,  Jack?" 

"Well,  it's  something  very  good,  but  he  was  rather 
vague  about  it.  Apparently  he  is  managing  some  large 
stores  for  the  supply  of  vegetables,  coals,  and  other 
necessities.  There  seems  to  be  great  difficulty  in  get- 
ting enough  market  produce,  and  also  in  controlling 
its  distribution — and  he  has  to  see  after  all  that. 
Great  trust  is  reposed  in  him  and  it  is  evidently  a  posi- 
tion of  heavy  responsibility.  He  didn't  say  whether 
it  was  directly  under  the  government,  but  I  should 
think  it  would  be.  .  .  .  Did  Primrose  say  anything  of 
her  latest  move?" 

"Yes,  but  she  didn't  give  many  details." 

"She  likes  her  work?" 

"Oh,  enormously.  Yes,  I  remember  now.  It  is  con- 
nected with  road  transport,  and  her  duties  keep  her 
perpetually  going  a  little  way  out  of  London  and  back 
again.  She  says  she  is  thrown  into  contact  with  all 
classes  of  people,  and  has  to  use  a  great  deal  of  tact. 
It  is  great  fun,  she  says,  and  the  remuneration  is  mag- 
nificent." 

"Then  that  must  be  government.  One  of  the  new 
ministries,  no  doubt.  Did  she  give  you  any  news  of 
Violet?" 

"No,  not  a  word." 

"Dear  old  stately  Vi,"  said  Jack,  lolling,  and  smil- 


ADVERSITY  267 

ing  lazily.  "She  always  knew  how  to  take  care  of  her- 
self. Hers  was  the  grand  old  instinct  of  the  slave- 
maker.  She  had  a  way  of  taking  possess Oh,  by 

Jove !"  And  suddenly  sitting  up,  he  laughed  aloud. 
"Guess  who  I  saw  the  other  day.  Carillon!'' 

"No?     Out  here?" 

"Yes.  He  didn't  see  me,  but  I  discovered  after- 
wards that  he  is  chaplain  at  a  divisional  headquarters. 
He  was  riding — as  grand  as  be  blowed — with  his  gen- 
eral and  a  couple  of  staff  officers.  Been  showing  'em 
how  many  dead  bodies  he'd  buried,  I  suppose";  and 
Jack  laughed  again.  "There'll  be  plenty  waiting  for 
him  when  we  push  the  Germans  back  another  hundred 
yards." 

Amabel  shivered  in  the  pleasant  sunlight. 

"Not  getting  cold,  are  you?" 

"Oh,  no.     It's  like  summer." 

"Isn't  it?"  And  Jack  looked  round",  and  spoke  with 
a  sigh  of  sheer  contentment  and  satisfaction.  "So 
quiet — so  peaceful." 

A  strange  adjective  and  yet  the  correct  one.  At 
this  short  distance  from  the  actual  front  it  was  peace- 
ful. One  might  be  killed  at  any  moment — by  a  shell 
from  a  long  range  high-velocity  gun  or  by  a  bomb 
launched  from  a  droning  speck  in  the  sky.  '  But  that 
would  be  an  accident — and  accidents  can  happen  any- 
where, at  any  time.  Even  as  he  spoke  there  came  a 
dull  roar  and  crash  from  the  burst  of  "heavy  stuff" 
landing  about  two  thousand  yards  away  on  their  right 
hand.  A  minute  or  so  later  there  came  the  sound  of 
a  similar  but  louder  explosion  less  than  a  thousand 
yards  away  on  their  left  hand.  Two  of  our  batteries 
a  little  way  ahead,  but  invisible,  had  been  shooting 


268  A  LITTLE  MORE 

for  an  hour;  behind  a  ridge  howitzers  were  busy,  and 
always  in  the  hazy  distance  one  could  see  those  little 
white  puffs.  Moreover,  at  intervals,  the  clear  pure 
atmosphere  allowed  Jack  to  hear  the  faint  crackle  of 
machine  gun  fire.  The  war,  the  abominable,  damnable 
war,  was  going  on  all  right.  Only  here  its  mere  busi- 
ness side  was  being  quietly  transacted.  People  were 
just  going  about  their  work;  wherever  you  looked,  you 
saw  the  orderliness,  the  peacefulness,  that  had  slowly 
arisen  in  the  midst  of  death  and  confusion  and  had  now 
become  a  habit  of  the  mind. 

Over  the  hillside  a  convoy  of  lorries,  full  of  shells 
or  food,  lumbered  slowly  to  dumps  at  Army  Corps 
headquarters.  Beneath  the  slope  the  C.C.S.,  toylike 
now,  was  full  of  little  men  unloading  stores  from  more 
lorries;  a  shabby  black  train  was  approaching;  two 
of  those  spick-and-span  luxurious  hospital  trains  were 
stationary,  side  by  side,  all  the  coaches  like  Pullman 
cars,  glittering  with  fresh  paint,  plate  glass,  red 
crosses ;  the  artillery  horses  in  endless  strings  were 
being  taken  to  the  river  to  water;  and,  behind,  the 
valley  stretched  away  showing  a  fallen  mass  of  twisted 
iron  that  had  been  a  railway  bridge,  the  new  wooden 
bridge  built  by  our  engineers,  and  the  white  road  teem- 
ing with  traffic. 

Of  course  the  blighting  signs  of  devastation  laj 
heavy  over  the  whole  landscape — shattered  tree  stumps, 
arid  waste,  rank  growth  of  nettles  and  charlock  as  the 
only  verdure;  but  one  had  grown  so  accustomed  to 
these  signs  that  one  scarcely  noticed  them.  It  re- 
quired some  slight  effort  of  the  imagination  to  think 
that  things  had  ever  been  otherwise. 

"Amabel,"    said   Jack,   knocking   out    the   ashes   of 


ADVERSITY  269 

his  pipe  against  his  boot,  "I'm  not  going  to  turn 
maudlin  or  sentimental,  because  I  know  how  you  hate 
it.  Quite  right  too.  But  there's  something  that  I 
must  ask  you  again  this  afternoon." 

"No,  don't  say  it,  Jack.     You  know  the  answer." 

"Yes,  but  I  must  hear  the  answer  once  again." 

"Why?" 

"Why?  Well,  because,  though  I  do  honestly  feel 
just  as  sure  as  you  that  my  luck  will  hold  good,  still 
if — well,  if  it  did  fail  and  I  got  knocked  over " 

"Jack!"  She  had  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  laid 
it  on  one  of  his. 

"Well,  then,  I  should  like  this  to  be  my  last  thought : 
that  all  the  bad  time  just  before  the  war — that,  not 
only  have  you  completely  forgiven  me — for  I  know  you 
have,  you  angel — but  that,  in  your  own  words,  it  is 
as  completely  gone  as  if  it  had  never  been." 

"Yes,  on  my  honour,  Jack." 

"Bless  you." 

"I  don't  even  remember  it.  It  was  all  too  small  to 
remember.  Oh,  Jack,  how  small,  how  infinitely  small 
those  times  have  become!" 

"Bless  you  again." 

"Listen,  dear.  Think  of  this  always.  It  is  the  best 
and  the  truest  answer.  You  and  I  before  the  war 
were  two  different  people.  What  did  it  matter  how 
those  two  behaved  to  each  other?  We  are  not  they." 

"I  think  I  was  mad,"  he  murmured  in  a  low  voice. 

Then  they  remained  silent  for  a  little  while.  She 
had  withdrawn  her  hand,  and  was  shading  her  eyes 
against  the  western  sun  as  she  looked  backward  down 
the  tranquil  valley.  Jack  sat  with  his  hands  clasped 
about  his  knees,  thinking. 


270  A  LITTLE  MORE 

It  was  Amabel  who  broke  the  silence,  and  her  words 
proved  that  she  was  a  person  with  imagination.  She 
said  how  pleasant  and  prosperous  the  valley  must  have 
been  once — "before  the  spirit  of  evil  broke  loose." 

Jack  started,  and  looked  round  at  her. 

"Mab,  how  funny,  your  saying  that !" 

"Why?" 

"It  chimed  in  so  oddly  with  what  I  was  thinking. 
What  is  the  spirit  of  evil,  Mab?  Is  there  really  such 
a  thing?" 

"Of  course  there  is,  Jack." 

"But  do  you  believe  in  the  old-fashioned  way,  Mab? 
In  the  spirit  personified — for  active  service — the  enemy 
of  mankind — the  devil,  I  mean?  I  thought  he  had 
been  cashiered  long  ago,  even  by  the  low  church 
people  ?" 

Amabel  said  what  most  good  sensible  women  would 
say  when  thus  questioned:  that  her  thoughts  on  such 
serious  matters  were  very  firm,  although  very  difficult 
to  put  into  words,  and  that  she  was  not  in  the  habit  of 
analysing  them  closely.  But  she  did  firmly  believe  that 
there  was  a  spirit  of  evil  and  a  spirit  of  good  actively 
at  work  in  every  human  being's  breast  and  throughout 
the  whole  universe. 

"I  see,"  he  said. 

"But  what  were  you  thinking  about,  Jack?" 

"Our  old  cousin — old  Nicholas.  Can  you  carry 
your  mind  back?  Can  you  tell  me  why  from  the  first 
you  disliked  him  so  much?" 

"Did  I  dislike  him?" 

"Yes.  And  you  used  to  say  you  were  afraid  of 
him." 

"Did  I,  Jack?" 


ADVERSITY  271 

"I  see  you  don't  remember.  Well,  looking  back,  I 
believe  /  was  afraid  of  him.  Mother  told  me  such  a 
queer  thing — you  know  she  was  always  rather  super- 
stitious. She  told  me  that  the  night  he  arrived  at  our 
house,  father  said  that  he  was  in  such  a  frame  of  mind 
that  he  would  welcome "  Jack  broke  off  his  sen- 
tence and  laughed.  "No,  it's  too  silly.  But,  from 
time  to  time,  I  have  had  such  queer  thoughts  about 
him." 

"What  thoughts,  Jack?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Trench  thoughts.  One  does 
get  odd  thoughts  in  trenches.  Too  silly!  Only  I 
know  this.  From  the  day  he  came  into  the  house  I  was 
off  my  base.  I  just  wdbbled  and  went  endways.  The 
spirit  of  evil  was  top-dog  with  me.  But,  of  course, 
as  they  taught  us  at  school,  'It  is  in  ourselves  that  we 
are  thus  or  thus.'  Nothing  to  do  with  him.  Poor  old 
beggar!  After  all,  he  told  me  to  be  kind  to  you, 
Mab."  Then  Jack  laughed  once  more.  "But  the  devil 
himself  wouldn't  want  to  see  you  treated  unkindly." 

"I  say !"  He  had  risen  and  he  glanced  at  his  wrist- 
watch.  "If  the  matron  really  said  you  might  give 
me  some  tea  down  there,  we'd  better  be  moving.  I 
shall  soon  have  te  be  off.  Come  on,  old  girl." 

She  took  his  hand,  and  he  pulled  her  lightly  to  her 
feet. 

A  few  days  later  the  storm  burst,  and  its  distant 
but  appalling  thunder  woke  staff  and  patients  alike 
down  at  Beau-Sejour. 

With  the  fog  in  their  favour,  with  the  dry  ground 
in  their  favour,  with  a  ten  to  one  dead  weight  of  man- 
power in  their  favour,  with  everything  in  their  favour, 


272  A  LITTLE  MORE 

the  Germans  had  started  their  great  March  drive. 
All  eyes  at  the  C.'C.S.  looked  westwards  trying  to  pierce 
the  white  veil;  from  the  first  one  knew  that  it  was 
heavy  fighting. 

By  about  nine  the  fog  lifted,  the  wounded  began  to 
arrive,  and  one  learnt  how  heavy  it  was.  We  were 
losing  ground — the  ground  we  had  died  for  in  thou- 
sands and  thousands.  Oh,  how  they  worked  at  that 
C.C.S.,  as  the  blood-stained  stream  of  humanity  flowed 
in  upon  them!  The  trains  were  going  away  too  full, 
one  clamoured  for  more  empty  trains. 

Was  it  that  night  or  next  day  that  they  knew  it 
was  a  retreat?  One  never  stopped  working,  never  had 
time  to  think.  But  at  dawn  one  saw  it  plainly,  too 
plainly.  The  noise  and  fury  sounded  close  upon  one 
now,  shells  were  bursting  in  the  valley,  the  gallant 
devoted  army  that  from  its  formation  had  gone  forward 
was  going  backwards — going  back  with  its  glorious 
general,  overwhelmed  by  numbers,  but  going  back  un- 
beaten, fighting  all  the  way. 

Things  grew  worse.  All  sorts  of  troops  were  pass- 
ing down  the  road;  far  back  the  valley  seemed  blocked 
with  them,  although  shattered  remnants  of  whole  divi- 
sions occupied  no  more  space  than  ordinary  battalions ; 
medical  orderlies  and  storekeepers,  watching,  saw  a 
Field  Ambulance  go  through  with  its  mules  and  wag- 
gons, and  were  puzzled,  worried.  Dreadfully  upside- 
down  this ;  against  all  rules  and  regulations,  for  the 
proper  position  of  a  Field  Ambulance  is  far  ahead  of 
a  C.C.S.,  not  behind  it.  Then  they  saw  another  go 
by — all  among  regimental  transport  and  artillery. 

"Look  out.     Lie  down  there.     Lie  down." 

The  real  shelling  had  begun;   crump   on   the   road, 


ADVERSITY  273 

crump  on  the  metalled  tract,  crump  on  the  edge  of 
our  camp.  They  understood  then  what  danger  those 
trains  were  in.  One  of  them  had  just  steamed  away 
heavily  laden. 

The  doctors  were  all  asking  their  colonel  how  long 
he  intended  to  remain.  But  the  colonel  was  very  fierce 
and  dogged;  he  had  received  no  orders.  Wires  cut, 
impossible  for  despatch- riders  or  runners  to  get 
through — yes,  that  might  be,  nevertheless  one  does  not 
leave  one's  post  without  orders.  Finally  he  sent  one 
of  his  officers  on  horseback  over  the  hill  to  Army  Corps 
headquarters. 

This  officer  found  Corps  gone.  There  was  some 
confusion  up  there,  the  last  lorries  lumbering  off  and 
men  running  after  them ;  corps  dumps  and  stores  ex- 
ploding and  blazing,  evidently  having  been  purposely 
set  on  fire.  No  one  there  to  transmit  orders.  He 
worked  his  way  back,  through  terrible  confusion  on 
the  hillside;  and  as  he  looked  over  his  left  shoulder 
he  saw,  in  the  dull,  strange,  battle  light — in  that  light 
which  is  unlike  any  other  light — he  saw  the  grey- 
coated  men.  Small  still,  like  scattered  ants  all  across 
the  plateau,  swarming  in  every  crease  of  the  ground, 
massed  on  the  hillside,  innumerable;  slowly  and  very 
cautiously  creeping  nearer  and  nearer. 

He  hurried  faster,  saw  the  shells  burst  on  their  road, 
saw  of  a  sudden  a  huge  fountain  of  earth,  stone,  iron; 
and  when  the  dust  cleared,  saw  the  railway  line  broken. 
One  of  those  lovely,  long,  big,  splendid  trains  was  a 
prisoner. 

The  colonel  said  they  must  go  now.  The  wounded 
were  taken  out  of  the  train  and  stowed  in  g.s.  waggons 
that  the  colonel  had  commandeered  from  an  ammuni- 


274  A  LITTLE  MORE 

tion  column  passing  empty.  Off  went  these  waggons. 
More  waggons  were  found  for  the  nurses  to  ride  in. 
The  colonel  gave  his  own  orders  briskly.  Rendez-vous 
at  Abri-des-Anges,  a  town  twenty  miles  off. 

The  nurses  were  in  the  waggons,  and  there  was  a 
strange  emptiness  from  the  camp  to  the  hillside;  but 
down  the  vacant  road  dozens  of  wounded  men  still 
came  staggering.  Three  tents  were  now  on  fire,  send- 
ing black  clouds  of  smoke  across  the  waggons,  and 
another  big  shell  brought  a  cataract  of  earth  and 
rubbish. 

"Take  those  women  away,"  bellowed  the  colonel. 
"Get  on  with  you." 

One  of  the  nurses  had  jumped  down  from  her  wag- 
gon. "Put  that  man  in  my  place,"  she  called.  "I 
can  walk." 

"I  too,  Nurse  Welby." .  .  .  "Here's  another  place, 
Nurse  Welby."  .  .  .  "Mine  too." 

The  nurses  were  all  jumping  down  from  the  wag- 
gons. They  helped  to  put  the  torn  and  broken  men 
in  their  places.  And,  thus  laden,  the  waggons  moved 
off. 

"Are  those  women  gone?"  roared  the  colonel,  com- 
ing through  the  smoke.  "Oh,  hell,  what's  this?" 

"We  are  marching,  sir,"  said  the  matron. 

At  this  supreme  moment  the  plump  short-sighted 
matron  was  really  rather  fine.  Even  her  angry  com- 
manding officer  could  not  make  her  hurry  unduly. 

"Fall  in,"  she  shouted,  so  loudly  that  her  pince-nez 
dropped  off;  and  she  made  the  girls  line  up  by  the 
side  of  the  road,  and  herself  stood  in  front  of  them. 
"Form  two  deep."  And  the  girls  did  so.  "Form 
Fours.  .  .  .  Right.  ...  By  the  right —  Quick 
march." 


ADVERSITY  275 

And  off  they  went,  the  matron  leading,  their  high 
heels  tapping  on  the  roadway,  as  the  first  of  the  Ger- 
mans crept  into  the  empty  space  at  the  top  of  the 
village.  The  matron  was  soon  out  of  breath,  but  she 
never  lost  her  self-possession.  They  were  badly  shelled 
beyond  the  smashed  bridge,  and  she  crowded  them  into 
some  slits  of  old  trenches  for  shelter,  and  then  told 
them  to  fall  in  again.  It  was  as  orderly  a  movement 
as  any  performed  by  regular  troops  in  the  evacuation 
of  Beau  Sejour. 

So  they  marched-,  till  their  shoes  were  worn  out  and 
their  feet  bled,  arriving  seven  hours  afterwards  at  the 
town  of  Abri-des-Anges. 

All  this  time  Jack  was  fighting  desperately,  as  a 
man  fights  when  he  has  his  back  to  a  weak  wall  and 
knows  that  his  wife  is  just  behind  the  wall. 

He  did  deeds  with  the  battalion,  and  when  that  was 
swept  away  he  did  them  by  himself.  At  a  certain  sunk 
road  he  rallied  about  fifty  men  belonging  to  at  least 
a  dozen  different  units;  in  the  absence  of  any  officer 
he  took  command  of  them,  organized  a  defence  of  the 
road,  and  held  up  the  enemy  with  rifle  fire.  In  a 
little  wood  on  his  right  there  were  some  other  fellows 
who,  seeing  the  road  held,  hung  on  stoutly;  and  the 
wood  and  the  road  together  stopped  the  cautious  Ger-« 
mans  for  many  hours.  It  was  a  very  useful  stoppage, 
by  which  whole  brigades  benefited ;  and  the  honour  and 
glory  of  it,  if  there  had  been  anyone  there  to  notice, 
belonged  to  Jack. 

Quite  at  the  end  it  was  noticed — by  an  officer  who 
suddenly  appeared  among  them  and  took  over  com- 
mand from  Jack. 


276  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Give  me  your  name  and  regiment,"  he  said,  during 
a  brief  lull.  " 'Welby— Sergeant  Welby'";  and  he 
scribbled  hard  in  his  pocket-book.  "I'm  writing  the 
strongest  possible  recommendation.  If  you  survive 
this,  you'll  be  decorated  and  given  a  commission." 

"Take  care,  sir."  The  officer  had  put  the  book  in 
his  breast  pocket,  and  he  stood  up. 

At  the  same  instant  he  was  hit.  Jack  clasped  his 
body  as  it  fell,  and  while  doing  so  a  bullet  knocked 
him  over,  and  the  two  bodies  rolled  down  the  high  bank 
into  the  roadway  together. 

They  were  picked  up  and  carried  away  by  the  faith- 
ful men  who  had  fought  with  them.  Those  other  lads 
had  gone  from  the  wood,  all  chance  to  keep  the  road 
had  gone,  everything  had  gone;  darkness  was  falling; 
the  Germans  were  coming  on.  And  yet  these  men  still 
carried  the  two  heavy  burdens,  at  a  trot  sometimes, 
the  heads  dangling,  the  limbs  all  loose;  both  of  them 
dead  or  they  could  not  be  so  heavy,  but  not  to  be  left 
if  you  were  not  absolutely  sure. 

In  fact  one  was  dead,  and  the  other  only  unconscious. 
Jack  awoke  on  a  stretcher  bed  in  a  lofty  lamp-lit  room 
and  asked  where  he  was.  At  Abri-des-Anges  they  told 
him. 

"But  where  is  C.C.S.  Number  172?" 

He  could  not  rest  till  they  procured  and  gave  him 
the  information.  C.C.S.  No.  172  got  away  all  right, 
without  the  loss  of  a  single  nurse.  It  was  quite  safe, 
somewhere  in  this  very  town. 

"Thank  God";  and  Jack  fainted  again. 


PART  FOUR 

PEACE    AND    GOOD-WILL 


CHAPTER  I 

SINCE  eleven  o'clock,  when  the  guns  and  maroons 
announced  that  the  armistice  had  been  signed, 
the  shouting,  the  singing  had  continued;  and 
now,  late  in  the  afternoon,  the  noise  of  the  streets  was 
if  anything  greater.  A  population  mad  with  joy  filled 
every  main  thoroughfare  to  overflowing;  wheeled  traffic 
was  almost  impossible;  work  of  all  kinds  had  ceased  as 
if  for  ever. 

But  divided  from  the  Hammersmith  Road  by  a  long 
passage  and  an  open  courtyard,  Welcome  House 
received  only  a  faint  echo  of  the  joyous  tumult,  and 
its  large  bare  common-room  seemed  a  strangely  quiet 
harbour  of  refuge  to  anybody  who  had  struggled  into 
it  from  the  stormy  waves  of  life  that  swept  to  and  fro 
outside  the  gates. 

At  the  moment  there  were  only  two  people  in  the 
room,  an  elderly  man  and  woman,  and,  as  if  worn  out 
with  fatigue,  both  of  them  were  sound  asleep.  The 
old  woman — from  her  appearance  originally  of  the 
respectable  charwoman  class — sat  leaning  against  the 
wall,  with  her  apron  over  her  head  and  her  red  toil- 
marked  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  The  old  man 
sprawled  across  a  table,  his  arms  outstretched  and  his 
grey  head  lying  on  them. 

This  Welcome  House  was  one  of  several  similar 
establishments  founded  by  a  philanthropic  nobleman. 
As  the  name  implied,  it  offered  a  welcome  to  those  who 

most  needed  hospitality,  the  indigent  and  unfortunate. 

279 


280  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Some  slight  charge  was  made  for  the  accommodation, 
since  it.  had  been  the  scheme  of  the  founder  to  benefit 
without  pauperizing ;  the  place  had  strict  rules ;  casual 
night  lodgers  as  well  as  the  more  regular  inmates 
shared  the  use  of  the  common-room,  cooked  their  sup- 
pers at  a  stove  that  stood  in  one  corner,  and  ate, 
wrote  their  letters,  or  read  their  newspapers,  at  the 
stout  wooden  tables.  Beyond  the  cooking  stove  and 
the  tables,  the  only  other  furniture  consisted  of  wooden 
benches  all  round  the  walls.  Late  at  night,  when  the 
room  was  full  and  each  bench  occupied,  people  sat  on 
the  floor  or  on  the  indescribable  bundles  that  they  had 
brought  with  them  as  luggage  in  lieu  of  trunks  and 
portmanteaus.  The  welcoming  abode  could  not  be 
accused  of  excessive  luxuriousness ;  yet,  compared  with 
the  workhouse,  it  was  the  Ritz  Hotel  or  Buckingham 
Palace.  Habitual  frequenters  regretted  bitterly  the 
stern  regulation  that  compelled  them  to  vacate  their 
beds  and  go  out  into  the  world  from  time  to  time. 
They  would  have  liked  to  make  the  place  their  per- 
manent residence. 

"Hello !     Got  the  shop  pretty  well  to  ourselves,  eh  ?" 
Two  more  people  had  come  in ;  but,  undisturbed  by 
their  voices,  the  sleepers  never  stirred. 

Both  of  the  new-comers  were  well  known  at  Wel- 
come House.  One  of  them,  Mr.  Board,  a  flabby  man 
with  a  squint,  had  once  been  a  piano-tuner  and  he  still 
hung  on  to  the  musical  world,  helping  to  carry  band 
instruments  in  the  Salvation  Army,  fetching  cabs  out- 
side the  Albert  Hall,  and  so  on.  The  authorities  of 
the  House  looked  with  little  favour  on  Mr.  Board, 
although  it  was  now  said  that  he  had  turned  over  a 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  281 

new  leaf.  At  any  rate  it  was  some  time  since  he  had 
been  in  prison. 

The  other  one,  a  middle-aged  scarecrow  of  a  man  in 
dingy  black  garments  and  linen  scarcely  whiter  than 
his  coat,  was  Mr.  Mordant.  He  spoke  of  himself  as 
being  "in  the  literary  line";  but  his  profession  was 
really  that  of  a  begging-letter-writer ;  he  wrote  begging 
letters  for  other  people  as  well  as  for  himself,  charging 
a  cash  fee  and  a  small  commission  on  results;  as  now, 
he  carried  always  a  neat  leather  attache  case,  which 
contained  together  with  pens,  ink,  and  all  sorts  of 
paper,  his  address  books,  his  lists  of  benevolent  persons, 
foolish  persons,  easily  frightened  persons,  and  the  other 
simple  materials  of  his  not  unlucrative  trade.  At  Wel- 
come House  he  was  known  as  "the  scribe."  Nearly 
everybody  there  had  a  nickname. 

Mr.  Mordant  put  down  his  leather  case,  lit  two  or 
three  jets  of  gas,  and  poked  the  fire,  while  Mr.  Board 
with  squinting  intentness  studied  the  aspect  of  the 
sleeping  man. 

"Strangers?"  asked  the  scribe. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Board,  "it's  the  old  philosopher  back 
again.  I  know  him  by  his  boots.  Look  at  'em";  and 
he  pointed  beneath  the  table,  where  the  gaslight  now 
shone  upon  a  pitifully  burst  and  dilapidated  pair  of 
brown  boots  under  ragged  festoons  of  trouser. 
"Those  boots  were  made  in  Bond  Street,  and  to  order 
too.  It  was  those  boots  that  first  made  me  give  cred- 
ence to  all  his  yarns  about  having  lost  his  fortune,  and 
his  wounded  son  stumping  up  for  him  so  handsome  last 
May.  The  owner  of  those  boots  has  had  money  once 
and  may  have  a  bit  again.  He  is  therefore  not  to  be 
counted  out  of  calculations  as  a  mere  gas-bag." 


282  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  the  scribe,  with  a 
grand  air.  "I  will  treat  him  civilly." 

Then  very  soon  the  sleepers  roused  themselves. 
Mrs.  Welby  stirred,  pulled  down  her  apron,  and  looked 
about  her  with  still  sleepy  eyes.  "Where  am  I?"  she 
said,  smiling.  "Oh,  yes,  to  be  sure.  Oh,  what  a  day !" 
And  she  jerked  her  husband's  coat  sleeve. 

Mr.  Welby  awoke  also,  and  there  was  an  exchange 
of  conversational  courtesies. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  philosopher,"  said  Mr.  Board. 

"The  same  here,"  said  Mr.  Mordant  suavely.  "Been 
gadding  with  the  rest  of  'em,  madam?" 

"Yes,  one  must  have  an  outing  sometimes" ;  and  Mrs. 
Welby  laughed.  "Directly  the  noise  began  Mr.  Welby 
came  and  fetched  me, — and,  well  there,  I  had  to  leave 
my  work.  I  shall  catch  it  for  doing  so  to-morrow,  I 
dare  say." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Mr.  Mordant.  "An  occasion  of 
public  rejoicing!" 

"Yes.  So  he  and  I,  we've  been  trapesing  up  and 
down  ever  since — shouting  and  dancing  too.  I  don't 
know  what  we  haven't  done" ;  and  she  laughed  again. 
"They  always  say:  No  such  fools  as  the  old  fools." 

"A  wonderful  never-to-be-forgotten  day,  gentlemen," 
said  Mr.  Welby.  "Do  we  yet  realize  it?  The  war  is 
over  at  last." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Board,  "the  best  of  things  must 
come  to  an  end";  and  he  sighed.  "The  war  has  been 
a  good  friend  to  me.  But  I  have  never  deceived  my- 
self that  it  could  go  on  for  ever." 

Mr.  Mordant  sighed  also.  "Yes,  we've  hard  times 
coming  now,  and  we  shall  need  all  our  courage  to  face 
'em.  The  cry  will  now  be  raised  to  cut  down  expenses ; 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  283 

the  circulation  of  money  which  has  been  so  plentiful 
and  beneficial  to  all  mankind  will  be  suddenly  restricted. 
It  will  no  longer  be  lightly  come  and  lightly  go.  Every 
appeal  for  aid  made  by  those  feeling  the  pinch  will  be 
severely  scrutinized.  It  will  be  especially  hard  on  those 
who  have  passed  their  first  youth.  A  gloomy  outlook 
— a  very  gloomy  outlook." 

"Gentlemen,  gentlemen,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  surprised 
and  a  little  indignant.  "I  don't  like  this  way  of  talk- 
ing— I  don't  like  it  at  all.  On  this  glorious  day,  in 
the  first  hour  of  triumph  and  victory!  I  call  it,  well, 
almost  unpatriotic." 

"Nay,  nay,"  said  Mr.  Mordant  suavely.  "I  yield 
to  none  in  my  patriotism,  my  love  of  country.  Let  me 
tell  you,  sir,  that,  as  I  came  through  the  throng  just 
now,  I  was  meditating  phrases  of  joy  and  triumph." 

"Ah,  that's  better." 

"Phrases  of  victorious  satisfaction,  Mr.  Welby, 
which  I  shall  embody  in — in  the  literary  work  on  which 
I  shall  soon  be  engaged." 

While  the  men  talked  Mrs.  Welby  had  gone  to  the 
stove  and  was  beginning  to  cook  some  kippered  herr- 
ings. 

Now  somebody  else  came  into  the  room.  It  was  a 
street  flower-girl.  She  put  down  her  huge  basket, 
stretched  her  weary  back ;  then  she  went  across  to  Mrs. 
Welby,  busy  with  the  herrings,  and  said,  "Mother 
dear." 

"That  you,  Vi?     You're  in  nice  time." 

It  was  Violet.  It  was  Violet,  and  nobody  else,  as  a 
flower  girl;  not,  alas,  in  fancy  dress,  but  clothed  and 
accoutred  in  the  grim  realities  of  the  part;  a  battered 
black  straw  hat  or  toque  on  the  back  of  her  head,  a 


284.  A  LITTLE  MORE 

grey  shawl  round  her  fine  shoulders,  and  fixed  to  her 
bosom  by  a  gigantic  safety  pin ;  grey  woollen  stockings 
beneath  the  short  rough  skirt,  and  beneath  the  stock- 
ings a  stout  pair  of  men's  boots  that  were  as  sadly  in 
need  of  repair  as  those  of  her  father. 

"Had  a  good  day?"  asked  Mrs.  Welby.  "I  mean, 
got  rid  of  all  your  flowers?" 

"Got  rid  of  them,  yes,"  said  Violet  dolefully,  almost 
whimpering.  And  she  related  how  the  exuberant  crowd 
had  celebrated  victory  by  snatching  the  flowers  out  of 
her  basket  and  tossing  them  high  in  the  air,  till  none 
were  left. 

"And  without  paying  you?" 

"Not  a  farthing." 

"Well,  I  do  call  that  disgraceful,"  said  Mrs.  Welby 
sympathetically.  "But,  oh,  my  dear,  you've  got  a 
black  eye.  Father,  come  here.  They've  given  Violet 
a  simply  cruel  black  eye." 

In  spite  of  Violet's  assurance  that  the  injury  to  her 
eye  was  of  no  consequence,  Mr.  Welby  expressed  very 
great  indignation  as  he  and  the  other  two  men  stood 
round  her  examining  the  dark  discoloration. 

"I  cannot  believe  it  an  accident,"  said  Mr.  Welby. 
"It  makes  my  blood  boil.  I  believe  some  brute  of  a 
man  has  struck  you." 

"No,  father,  I  swear  you're  wrong." 

Mr.  Board  was  squinting  most  horribly  but  smiling 
at  the  same  time,  for  the  comeliness  of  Violet  pleased 
him. 

"The  young  lady,"  he  said  ingratiatingly,  "has  not 
been  struck  to-day  at  any  rate;  nor  yesterday  either. 
I  know  something  about  black  eyes,  and  without  hesita- 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  285 

tion  I  pronounce  that  eye  as  a  week  old.  Am  I  right, 
miss  ?" 

The  entrance  of  the  warden  saved  Violet  from 
answering  this  question. 

The  warden  was  a  burly,  rather  aggressive  and  yet 
not  ill-natured  person  dressed  in  some  sort  of  uniform. 

"Who's  had  the  impudence  to  light  the  gas  without 
my  permission?"  he  inquired. 

"I,"  said  the  scribe.  "Mine  was  the  hand  that  broke 
a  rule,  good  friend,  to  save  thee  trouble." 

"You  go  along,"  said  the  warden ;  "and  none  of  your 
nonsense.  Now  attend  to  me.  I  don't  suppose  we 
shall  have  anybody  else  in  yet  awhile.  Can  I  trust  you 
old  stagers  to  behave  yourselves  if  I  slip  out  as  far  as 
the  Broadway?" 

"Run,  fly,"  said  the  scribe  grandly.  "Leave  us  in 
confidence  supreme.  Play,  laugh,  and  dance  with  the 
merry  mob.  We  need  not  thy  ministrations." 

After  the  warden  had  gone  the  party  settled  down 
comfortably.  It  was  pleasant  to  have  the  big  room 
so  much  to  oneself.  The  three  men  walked  about,  talk- 
ing, and  smoking  some  "gasper"  cigarettes  that  Violet 
had  brought  as  a  present  for  her  father ;  as  well  as  the 
family  kippers  Mrs.  Welby  cooked  some  rashers  of  ham 
that  belonged  to  Mr.  Mordant ;  Violet  sat  by  the  stove 
near  her,  chatting  confidentially. 

"Prim  still  sends  you  the  pound  every  week, 
mother  ?" 

"Yes,  dear.  Never  once  failed.  What  we  should 
do  without  it,  7  don't  know;  although  it  always  seems 
like  a  drop  in  the  ocean.  Your  father  read  me  out  an 
article  yesterday  proving  that  a  pound  is  now  really  no 


286  A  LITTLE  MORE 

more  than  six  and  a  penny  of  the  old  money.  Goes 
no  further." 

"Has  Jack  been  able  to  do  any  more  for  you?" 

"No,  dear.  He  and  Amabel  are  just  as  hard  up  as 
we  are.  Prim's  the  only  one  of  us  that's  any  way 
prosperous." 

"Father  can't  get  work?" 

"No.  Not  a  sign  of  it.  I've  been  lucky  myself  this 
last  fortnight — washing-up  in  the  kitchen  of  the 
Anchor  Restaurant — two  shillings  per  diem.  And  we 
shall  be  all  right  for  a  bit  here.  Couldn't  you  afford 
to  take  a  bed  yourself,  so  as  we  could  be  together 
again  ?" 

"Too  far  off,"  said  Violet.  "I  have  to  be  at  Covent 
Garden  by  five  every  morning." 

"Poor  Vi.  I  do  wish  you  could  get  something  more 
suitable.  By  the  way,"  and  Mrs.  Welby  became 
mysteriously  confidential,  "I've  a  piece  of  news. 
Remind  me  to  tell  you  before  you  go.  I've  a  sugges- 
tion to  make  in  regard  to  it.  But  run  and  get  some 
more  water  for  the  kettle  now." 

"Yes,  mother,"  and  Violet  picked  up  the  large  metal 
can  that  stood  beside  the  stove. 

"Be  sure  you  don't  leave  the  tap  dripping.  It  makes 
the  warden  so  angry  if  he  finds  the  boards  wet." 

"That  young  lady,  if  I  may  venture  to  remark  on  it," 
said  Mr.  Board,  at  Mrs.  Welby's  elbow,  "that  is  a  very 
fine  piece  of  goods";  and  he  made  gestures  with  his 
dirty  hands.  "Not  only  the  face,  but  the  figger.  As 
attractive  a  bit  as  anyone  could  wish  to  meet.  You 
must  be  proud  of  her,  ma'am." 

"She  has  had  an  immense  amount  of  admiration  in 
her  time,"  said  Mrs.  Welby,  with  a  gratified  simper  as 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  287 

she  turned  the  rashers.  "But  of  course  you  do  not 
see  her  at  her  best  nowadays.  I  wish,  Mr.  Board,  I 
do  really  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  in  her  ball 

dress  or Hush.  Here  she  comes";  and  Mrs. 

Welby  dropped  her  voice  to  a  whisper.  "She  is  very 
sensitive." 

They  all  sat  down  to  supper  together. 

"For  goodness  sake  don't  let  us  make  two  tables  of 
it,"  said  Mr.  Welby  jovially.  "On  this  day  of  all  days 
let  us  be  friendly." 

Truly  they  formed  a  strange  assemblage  in  the  gas- 
light, the  Welbys  and  these  two  seedy  ruffians ;  but 
none  of  them  seemed  conscious  of  or  worried  by  the 
strangeness.  They  laughed  and  talked;  for  the  time 
being,  while  the  respite  from  care  lasted,  they  were 
essentially  happy.  Mrs.  Welby  poured  out  the  tea; 
Violet  at  her  side  handed  the  tin  mugs;  the  flabby 
cross-eyed  Board  on  the  other  side  of  Violet  was  thrilled 
by  her  handsome  presence;  Mr.  Welby  tapped  Mr. 
Mordant  on  the  arm,  nudged  him,  and  joked  with  him, 
as  if  he  had  been  an  old  and  valued  friend. 

Why  had  the  Welbys  fallen  so  low?  Why  had  they 
failed  with  such  completeness  throughout  a  period  in 
which  all  the  world  was  making  money  ?  Perhaps  their 
fundamental  error  had  been  that  during  the  early 
stages  of  the  descent  they  asked  for  a  little  more  than 
they  could  reasonably  expect  to  get.  At  the  beginning, 
while  the  government  filled  its  myriads  of  desks  and 
stools  with  well-paid  underlings,  Mr.  Welby  was  offer- 
ing himself  as  a  business  manager,  Violet  was  trying 
to  contribute  to  a  ladies'  magazine,  Primrose  was 
attempting  the  concert  platform;  then  when  they 
applied  for  governmental  employment,  it  was  too  late; 


288  A  LITTLE  MORE 

they  had  missed  their  chances,  the  descent  was  becom- 
ing rapid,  all  choice  had  gone. 

Yet  Mr.  Welby  at  least  should  have  acted  with 
greater  foresight,  since  he  himself  had  once  covered  all 
this  ground  philosophically.  A  year  before  his  dis- 
aster he  had  pointed  out  to  Mrs.  Welby  how  swiftly 
one  sinks  as  soon  as  one  loses  one's  place  on  the  com- 
fortable surface  of  existence.  "You  are  useful  and 
respected  here,"  he  had  wisely  said;  "but  you  find 
yourself  useless  and  unvalued  there;  and,  try  how  you 
will,  down  you  go." 

And,  what  was  so  curious,  he  still  talked  with  extra- 
ordinary sageness ;  as  if  able  plainly  to  see  the  mistakes 
of  everybody  else,  although  blind  to  his  own. 

"My  boy  will  never  learn  wisdom,"  he  was  telling 
Mr.  Mordant.  "A  heart  of  gold,  you  know,  but  too 
impulsive.  Won't  stop  to  think — and,  worse  than  that, 
won't  let  others  think  for  him.  It  was  nothing  but 
this  hastiness  that  led  him  into  committing  his  great 
folly  of  last  June." 

"What  was  the  folly?" 

"Going  slap  out  of  the  army  with  a  sum  down,  and 
forgoing  all  future  claims  against  the  government.  I 
grant  you  it  was  a  temptation — a  largish  sum  of 
money,  but " 

"Does  he  retain  none  of  that  money  in  his  hands 
now?"  asked  Mr.  Mordant,  deeply  interested. 

Mr.  Welby  said  no,  it  was  all  gone,  and  Mr.  Mord- 
ant's interest  became  languid. 

"You  see  the  position,"  Mr.  Welby  continued.  "The 
boy  had  been  badly  wounded — despaired  of  at  first — 
but  then  cured;  only  left  with  a  stiff  arm,  which  they 
promised  to  cure  too,  give  them  time.  There  he  was, 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  289 

safe  in  hospital  down  Haslemere  way,  to  be  taken  care 
of  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  if  he'd  played  his  cards 
properly — for  you  don't  tell  me,  Mr.  Mordant,  that  the 
government  is  going  to  forsake  all  these  splendid  sol- 
diers oo've  fought  and  bled  for  us.  They  must  give 
'em  pensions — such  as  need  pensions  and  haven't 
renounced  their  claims.  His  wife,  a  good  girl,  my  dear 
Mordant — nurse  out  in  France — highly  considered — 
she  gets  herself  transferred  to  home  service,  so  as  to  be 
near  him.  There  is  great  love  between  the  pair.  Very 
well.  But  this  isn't  sufficient  for  Master  Jack.  He 
tells  his  mother  when  she  goes  down  to  see  him — twenty- 
seven  shillings  that  day  cost — he  tells  her  he  can't  lie 
there  idle.  If  he  isn't  fit  to  fight,  he  must  work.  A 
week  afterwards  he  has  committed  the  fatal  error,  and 
banged  himself  out  into  the  world  with  the  short-sighted 
money  in  his  pockets." 

"But  his  pockets  are  empty  now,  I  think  you  said. 
What  did  he  do  with  the  money?" 

"First  and  foremost  he  insists  on  putting  his  mother 
and  me  on  our  legs  again — temporarily,  you  under- 
stand. He'd  have  done  the  same  for  his  sisters — only 
they  refused  flat.  Then  next,  if  you  please,  he  must 
sink  his  capital  in  a  shop — and  makes  his  wife  give  up 
her  nurseship  and  the  pay  and  the  allowances  that 
went  with  it,  in  order  to  help  in  the  shop.  I  advised 
against,  tried  hard  to  put  my  foot  down  and  forbid  it. 
But,  no,  he  can't  listen  to  me.  It  was  souvenirs  and 
bric-a-brac — Holloway — and  they  put  the  shutters  up 
precisely  two  months  after  they'd  opened  it." 

"A  pity — a  pity,"  said  Mr.  Mordant,  yawning. 

"Mind  you,  his  wife  could  have  pretty  near  kept  him 
by  going  back  to  her  nursing,  and  wanted  to  do  it, 


290  A  LITTLE  MORE 

implored  him;  but  he  holds  to  the  high  view  that  the 
husband  must  support  the  wife.  Too  late  to  change 
his  mind  now,  however  hard  pressed,  for  her  chances 
as  a  wage-earner  have  been  taken  from  her  by — well, 
by  the  delicate  state  of  her  health" ;  and  with  his  hand 
before  his  mouth,  Mr.  Welby  whispered  to  Mr. 
Mordant. 

They  sat  long  at  table,  but  at  last  the  party  broke 
up.  People  began  to  come  in  from  the  streets;  the 
room  grew  full,  and  so  noisy  that  there  were  sharp 
reproofs  from  the  warden. 

"Why  can't  you  behave  sensible?"  he  asked.  "And 
why  don't  some  of  you  turn  in  to  bed?  You  can't  want 
to  kick  up  this  row  all  night." 

"We  may  sing,  I  suppose,"  said  a  hoarse  youth,  and 
he  started  God  Save  the  King,  nearly  everybody  at 
once  chiming  in. 

"No,  no,"  shouted  the  warden,  holding  up  his  hands 
"Stow  it,  I  tell  you.  We've  had  enough  of  that." 

"Miss  Welby,"  said  Mr.  Board,  following  her  about 
in  the  crowd,  "let's  find  a  corner,  and  I'll  sing  Down 
on  the  Swanny  River  in  a  low  voice,  so's  he  won't  hear 
me.  I  had  a  fine  voice  once.  I'd  like  to  sing  to  you. 
I'd  like  you  to  take  a  little  notice  of  me." 

Violet  excused  herself,  saying  that  she  must  be  going, 
and  she  wanted  to  have  a  few  words  with  her  mother. 

"I'll  fetch  her,"  said  Mr.  Board.  "There,  you  sit 
there  and  I'll  bring  her  to  you.  I'd  do  anything  to 
give  evidence  of  the  effect  you  have  produced  upon  me." 

Then,  when  mother  and  daughter  were  sitting  close 
together  on  the  end  of  a  bench,  he  stood  at  a  respectful 
distance  squinting  and  admiring. 

At  a  table  close  by,  the  scribe  had  established  him- 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  291 

self  and  was  doing  business  with  a  client.  The 
attache  case  lay  open,  suitable  note  paper  had  been 
selected,  and  Mr.  Mordant,  while  he  smoked  the  last  of 
Violet's  gaspers,  dictated  in  a  firm  voice. 

"When  others  are  cheering  victory  to  the  echo  I 
write  with  tears  as  a  broken  bit  of  wreckage  of  the 
great  war." 

"Hold  on,"  said  the  writer,  toiling  painfully.  "How 
do  you  spell  wreckage?" 

"Never  mind  how  I  spell  it,"  said  Mr.  Mordant 
grandly.  "Spell  it  your  own  way." 

"I'd  like  to  spell  it  the  right  way  if  I  could." 

"How  dull,  how  stupid  you  are,"  said  Mr.  Mordant, 
with  the  sudden  irritability  of  an  author  put  out  of  his 
stride.  "Cannot  you  see  that  I'm  striving  after 
genuineness,  naturalness,  which  a  mistake  in  spelling 
may  heighten  rather  than  injure.  A  man  in  your 
position  isn't  likely  to  spell  correctly  all  through." 

"Oh,  I  see  now,"  said  the  penman  humbly. 

"Then  go  on";  and  Mr.  Mordant  continued  to  dic- 
tate. "  'Although  I  never  had  the  honour  of  serving 
directly  under  your  command,  I  knew  you,  sir,  by 
reputation  as  a  fine  officer,  a  real  gentleman,  and  a 
true  sportsman.'  Underline  'sportsman.'  Full  stop. 
New  sentence.  'So,  throwing  pride  to  the  winds,  I 

make  this  appeal '  Comma.  Dash.  * this 

heartbroken  appeal.' ' 

Curiously  enough,  Mrs.  Welby  at  the  same  moment 
was  whispering  to  her  daughter  about  pride  and  its 
abandonment. 

"It's  all  very  well,  Vi,  what  your  father  says  of  being 
too  proud  to  do  this,  too  proud  to  do  that.  But  there 


292  A  LITTLE  MORE 

are  limits.  I  cannot  see  any  harm  in  accepting  help, 
if  one  can  obtain  it." 

And  she  told  Violet  that  on  the  long  list  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  formed  the  new  committee  of  man- 
agement here  at  Welcome  House  she  had  discovered  the 
name  of  an  old  friend  of  the  family. 

"Perhaps  I  ought  to  say  a  friend  of  yours,  Vi,  rather 
than  a  friend  of  ours.  Mr.  Carillon!  Yes.  More 
than  that.  He  has  been  here,  himself,  to  look  round. 
The  warden  told  me  so.  It  was  a  fortnight  ago,  while 
your  father  and  I  were  waiting  our  turn  in  accordance 
with  the  rules.  What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Whatever  Violet  thought  of  it,  the  news  had  thrown 
her  into  a  great  state  of  distress.  She  hung  her  head, 
she  plucked  at  her  rough  skirt,  she  moved  her  heavy 
boots  restlessly.  Then  Mrs.  Welby  made  the  sugges- 
tion at  which  she  had  previously  hinted. 

"Why  not  write  to  him,  Vi?" 

"Oh,  no,  never.     I'd  sooner  starve." 

"Then  may  /  write  to  him?" 

"No,  a  thousand  times  no.  Mother,  I  should  die  of 
shame  if  you  did";  and  she  clung  to  Mrs.  Welby  in 
extremest  agitation.  "Mother,  promise  me  on  your 
word  of  honour  that  you  won't  do  it." 

Grudgingly  and  fretfully  her  mother  promised. 

"It's  a  solemn  promise,  isn't  it?"  said  Violet,  going. 

"Good-night,  Vi,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  He  was  the 
centre  of  a  little  knot  of  genial  companions,  and  he 
stopped  the  flow  of  his  talk  as  she  passed.  "Take 
care  of  yourself,  my  dear." 


CHAPTER  II 

VIOLET  had  really  been  taking  care  of  herself 
as  well  as  she  could,  and  had  even  gone  to  the 
extreme  length  of  trying  to  take  care  of  some- 
body else. 

This  was  a  weak  little  girl  of  fourteen,  named 
Gladys,  who  occupied  a  very  small  space  on  the  island 
of  pavement  forming  "the  pitch"  where  Violet  with 
three  other  adults  sold  her  flowers ;  and  in  Gladys — or 
Glad-eyes,  as  they  called  her — Violet  saw  the  truth  of 
a  recent  philosophic  observation  that  had  been  made 
by  Mr.  Welby.  "However  great  one's  misery,"  said 
Mr.  Welby,  "one  can  always  find  somebody  more 
unfortunate  than  oneself." 

Looking  at  poor  little  Glad-eyes,  and  thinking  about 
her,  Violet  saw  that  she  herself  had  much  for  which  to 
be  thankful;  since  Glad-eyes  possessed  neither  father 
nor  mother,  she  was  entirely  alone  in  the  world,  she 
had  a  chronic  hip-lameness  and  something  wrong  with 
her  lungs.  On  cold  days  she  coughed  most  painfully, 
but  whether  the  sun  shone  or  dark  clouds  lowered,  she 
was  cheerful  and  brave,  patient  under  her  own  troubles, 
eager  to  assist  other  people  in  theirs. 

At  the  pitch  they  made  a  drudge  of  her,  reminding 
her  that  she  was  only  there  on  sufferance,  sending  her 
errands,  baiting  her. 

"Glad-eyes,"  Rufus,  the  man,  would  say.  "What- 
cher  playin'  at?  Get  on  with  it,  can't  yer?" 

"Yes,  I'm  a  gettin*  on  with  it  nicely,"  said  the  child, 
293 


294  A  LITTLE  MORE 

tying  up  branches  of  laurel  with  string.  "On'y,  don't 
'urry  me,  please."  And  she  laughed.  "Most  'aste 
less  speed." 

"Gladys,  ye  young  trollop,"  said  old  Mother  Rowse, 
in  her  terrible  gin-and-fog  voice.  "Off  wi'  ye  to  the 
vaults,  and  bring  me  a  bob's  worth  of  unsweetened. 
Here,  take  the  bottle." 

"Right  you  are,  Mother  Rowse,"  said  Gladys 
cheerily. 

"And  here,"  said  Mrs.  Blood,  "get  me  free  pennuff 
o'  peppymint  drops." 

"Yes,  Emmie,  I  will." 

"You  dare  address  me  as  Emmie  1  I'm  Mrs.  Blood, 
I  am.  And  don't  you  forget  it,  or  I'll  box  yer  pert 
ears  off  yer  head  fer  you." 

"Very  sorry,"  said  Gladys.  "I  didn't  mean  any 
offence." 

The  pitch  was  at  the  junction  of  two  busy  streets 
not  far  from  the  Euston  Road,  and  with  a  heart  full 
of  pity  Violet  watched  the  frail  limping  little  figure  as 
it  dodged  through  the  traffic. 

"Vi'let,"  said  Mother  Rowse,  when  the  bottle  was 
brought  back  to  her,  "do  you  wish  a  taste?  You  can 
have  one  if  you  like.  .  .  .  All  the  more  for  me  then"; 
and  she  gave  a  horrible  chuckle.  "Emmie,  you  won't 
say  no,  I'm  sure" ;  and  with  the  bottle  in  her  hand  she 
paused  to  give  a  brief  dissertation  on  etiquette.  "I  call 
her  Emmie  because  she's  my  niece,  but  to  others  she 
rightly  takes  her  rank  as  a  married  woman.  And  when 
I  say  married,  I  mean  married — with  her  husband  living 
though  separated.  I  call  you  Vi'let — and  shall  do — 
because  you  ain't  a  married  woman." 

Old  Mrs.  Rowse  was  truly  terrible;  huge  and  fat, 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  295 

type  of  a  bygone  era,  an  anachronism — the  flower- 
seller  of  the  Victorian  age,  almost  able  to  touch  hands 
with  the  bloated  street  viragoes  of  that  still  earlier 
period  mirrored  for  us  in  Rowlandson's  cartoons. 

By  comparison  Mrs.  Blood  was  refined;  a  compact 
stoutish  creature  with  red  cheeks  and  greasy  black 
hair,  fonder  of  gallantry  than  drink,  bad-tempered 
without  being  hot-tempered. 

"Did  I  see  you  giving  a  part  of  your  dinner  to 
Glad-eyes?"  she  asked  Violet.  "That's  very  wrong  of 
you.  D'you  want  to  spoil  the  brat  for  us?" 

But,  undeterred  by  this  warning,  Violet  took  the 
child  under  her  protection  as  far  as  she  dared ;  also  she 
begged  the  man  Rufus  not  to  be  harsh  and  to  use  his 
influence  to  prevent  the  women  from  bullying  her. 

Violet  owed  everything  to  Rufus.  He  was  a  fellow  of 
few  words,  except  in  the  way  of  business,  but  he  eked 
out  his  conversation  with  many  winks  and  nods  and 
nudges.  Thus,  seeing  how  Violet  was  pushed  aside 
every  morning  at  Covent  Garden  Market  in  the 
scramble  of  buying  the  flowers  from  the  salesman,  he 
gave  her  a  nudge.  "New  to  this  game,  eh?"  And  he 
winked.  He  taught  her  the  trick  of  buying,  advised 
her  as  to  the  localities  in  which  to  hawk  her  stuff,  and 
at  last  one  day  told  her  there  was  a  vacant  place  at 
his  pitch.  A  young  lady  had  met  with  an  accident. 
"Got  blotto,"  he  said  laconically.  "Fell  downstairs 
and  broke  her  neck." 

Naturally  Violet  jumped  at  such  a  chance;  it  is  every 
flower-girl's  ambition  to  pass  from  the  hard  struggle 
of  street-hawking  to  the  comfort  and  security  of  a 
regular  pitch.  She  knew  that  she  was  greatly  to  be 


296  A  LITTLE  MORE 

envied;  she  was  much  obliged  to  Rufus,  but  sometimes 
a  little  afraid  of  him. 

Although  so  silent  when  not  professionally  engaged, 
he  could  work  himself  into  a  frenzy  and  make  a  terrific 
noise  when  he  considered  it  advisable. 

"Flow-ers.  All  a  blowing,"  he  would  roar  from  the 
island,  and  make  the  house  fronts  on  either  side  throw 
back  an  echo.  "Narse  fresh  flow'ers,  lydy.  Buy  a 
flow-er,  lydy.  Come  on,  lydies.  Show  some  mercy. 
Buy  a  pretty  flow-er."  So  he  shouted  till  the  veins 
stood  out  on  his  forehead  and  his  face  was  crimson, 
making  Violet  feel  afraid  of  him  in  spite  of  his  civility 
to  herself. 

And  if  the  ladies  passed  by  unheeding  and  there  was 
no  policeman  in  sight,  Mother  Rowse  would  utter  dread- 
ful imprecations ;  yelling  after  the  ladies,  assuring  them 
that  far  from  being  ladies  they  were  something  very 
much  less  admirable. 

Their  best  customers  belonged  to  the  other  sex. 
Gentlemen  going  to  the  big  railway  stations  on  the  way 
home  to  northern  suburbs  sometimes  bought  freely, 
and  it  was  observable  that  a  few  of  them  made  a  point 
of  buying  from  Violet. 

"They  fall  in  love  with  you,"  said  Gladys,  whisper- 
ing to  her.  "I  ain't  surprised  neither." 

"Oh,  nonsense,"  said  Violet,  blushing. 

That  these  strange  passing  men  admired  her  was 
obvious;  and  indeed,  as  if  by  another  queer  stroke  of 
fate,  she  had  never  looked  so  handsome  and  attractive 
as  now.  She  had  seemed  commonplace  in  her  ball 
dresses,  she  seemed  fine  in  her  rags.  As  she  stood 
there  holding  up  a  great  bunch  of  foliage,  with  her 
dark  eyes  intent  on  a  customer's  face,  with  her  hair 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  297 

tumbled  loosely  about  her  ears,  and  her  white  neck 
rising  firmly  from  the  folds  of  the  coarse  shawl,  she 
would  have  made  a  worthy  subject  for  a  bold  strong 
painter's  brush. 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  customers,  "you  can  keep  the 
change." 

"Keep  the  change" — those  words  were  so  to  speak 
the  irrefutable  proof  of  such  successes,  and,  hearing 
them,  two  of  her  companions  grew  envious. 

Little  Gladys  knew  no  envy.  She  felt  nothing  but 
gratitude  and  affection  for  Violet;  she  revered  her, 
adored  her. 

"No  one's  ever  spoke  to  me  as  you  do,"  she  said. 
"But  you  ain't  like  the  others.  All  of  'em  can  see  it. 
That's  what's  goin'  to  make  it  dangerous  for  you." 

And  one  evening  when  they  were  walking  away  to- 
gether she  asked  Violet  not  to  be  kind  to  her  publicly. 

"In  private,  yes ;  but  don't  do  it  on  the  pitch.  Let 
me  walk  along  with  you  like  this  sometimes — and  hold 
your  hand.  Thank  you.  On'y,  be  guided  by  me  and 
nag  like  the  others  on  the  pitch.  If  not  they'll  turn 
against  you.  And  it'll  on'y  make  it  all  the  harder  for 
me  when  you're  gone — for  o'  course  you'll  be  gone 
soon." 

Although  Violet  was  ignorant  of  the  fact,  there  had 
been  before  her  arrival  some  sort  of  tenderness  between 
Rufus  and  Mrs.  Blood;  at  any  rate  he  paid  her  atten- 
tion, moving  her  heavy  basket  for  her,  giving  her  a 
good  share  of  their  tarpaulin  sheet  when  it  rained,  and 
so  on;  but  he  had  now  transferred  these  civilities  to 
Violet.  Old  Mother  Rowse  liked  as  little  to  see  her 
niece  neglected  as  to  see  Violet  favoured,  and  her 
resentment  made  her  acrimonious.  She  croaked  out 


298  A  LITTLE  MORE 

disparaging  remarks  as  if  to  the  sky;  she  pulled  the 
pigtail  of  Glad-eyes  without  the  least  cause;  and  she 
was  sometimes  openly  vituperative  to  Rufus,  telling 
him  that  he  had  brought  "insects"  to  the  pitch,  that 
he  had  shown  the  white  feather  in  the  war,  that  he  had 
escaped  from  the  army  by  eating  soap,  spuriously 
foaming  at  the  mouth,  and  meanly  pretending  to  be 
epileptic. 

Rufus  refused  to  be  drawn  into  chat  by  such  insults, 
he  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  or  made  a  rude  ges- 
ture. But  of  course  all  this  friction  rendered  life  at 
the  pitch  less  pleasant  for  everybody. 

Then,  in  her  spite,  Mother  Rowse  detected  that  she 
could  best  hurt  Violet  by  hurting  Glad-eyes,  and  deaf 
to  protests  she  teased  and  bullied  worse  than  ever. 
The  thing  culminated  on  a  fine  morning  just  a  week 
before  the  armistice.  On  this  particular  morning 
Gladys  came  late  to  her  work;  she  was  coughing  pit- 
eously,  and  she  endeavoured  to  excuse  the  lateness  by 
telling  them  that  she  had  a  headache. 

"All  right,  my  lady,"  said  Mother  Rowse,  with  an 
ominous  oath,  "I'll  attend  to  you  d'rectly." 

For  the  moment  she  was  busy  in  arranging  her  great 
flower  basket.  To-day  she  had  embarked  on  a  hand- 
some venture,  sinking  capital  in  the  purchase  of  white 
chrysanthemums ;  she  arranged  this  beautiful  and  costly 
stock  with  deftness,  so  that  the  massed  blooms  stood 
high  above  the  basket  rim,  like  snow  or  frothing  cream ; 
then  she  gave  a  contemptuous  snort  in  the  direction  of 
Violet's  basket,  which  had  scarcely  anything  but  ever- 
greens. 

"This  way,  kind  gentleman.  Here  you  are.  Ain't 
they  beauties?" 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  299 

A  customer  had  paused  in  mid  roadway,  and  Mother 
Rowse  beamed  upon  him  professionally  as  she  showed 
him  her  chrysanthemums. 

The  customer,  however,  after  a  little  shilly-shally 
bought  a  branch  of  berberis  from  Violet. 

"Keep  the  change,"  he  said  over  his  shoulder. 

That  was  altogether  too  much  for  Mother  Rowse. 

"Come  you  here,"  she  growled.  "You  was  late, 
wasn't  you?  Now  I'll  make  your  ears  sing  for  it." 

She  had  the  pigtail  in  her  hand,  and  seating  herself 
on  her  camp  stool  she  held  the  victim  firmly. 

"Don't  hit  me,"  wailed  Gladys.  "I've  told  you  I 
have  the  headache." 

"No,  don't  you  dare  touch  her,"  said  Violet.  "Let 
her  go  at  once." 

"Let  her  go!"  spluttered  Mother  Rowse,  almost  suf- 
focated by  wrath.  "Who  says  I'm  to  let  her  go?" 

"7  say  so,"  whispered  Violet;  and,  acting  quickly 
and  resolutely,  she  wrenched  the  old  wretch's  hands 
from  the  pigtail,  and  pulled  the  child  away. 

"Oh,  oh.  Ha-ha,"  cried  Mrs.  Blood.  "That's  a 
good  'un.  You're  to  take  orders,  Aunt,  so  it  seems." 

"Cheese  it,"  said  Rufus. 

"I'll  learn  her,"  said  Mother  Rowse. 

She  had  risen,  vast  and  terrible,  and  she  stood  before 
her  basket  glaring  almost  in  amazement  at  the  rash 
girl  who  had  braved  her.  Violet,  with  cheeks  as  white 
as  the  chrysanthemums,  but  with  eyes  that  did  not 
quail,  confronted  her. 

In  this  pause,  of  perhaps  three  seconds,  Rufus  merely 
put  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  watched.  The  in- 
violable laws  of  all  the  society  that  he  knew  precluded 
him  from  interfering  at  this  early  stage  in  a  battle 


300  A  LITTLE  MORE 

between  ladies.  He  could  do  nothing  unless  the  rules 
of  sport  were  infringed;  he  would  promptly  use  all  his 
strength  to  prevent  kicking  or  maltreating  a  fallen 

foe;  but  till  then Only  ftH  his  heart  was  with 

Violet;  every  pulse  of  his  body  beat  in  hope  and  des- 
pair for  her;  he  prayed  for  a  miracle. 

"There.     You " 

Mother  Rowse  had  clenched  her  fists,  and  like  a 
flash  she  let  drive  with  her  right,  landing  on  Violet's 
eyebrow.  Violet  staggered  beneath  the  blow,  but  re- 
covering herself  went  for  Mother  Rowse  gamely. 

It  was  a  grand  rush,  and  she  overbore  her.  By  one 
of  those  uniquely  precious  bits  of  luck  that  come  to 
grace  a  lifetime,  Violet  brought  down  Mrs.  Rowse  so 
that  she  fell  sitting,  right  in  her  basket.  The  strong 
basket  held  her;  she  just  sat  there  with  her  enor- 
mous loins  jammed,  struggling  and  cursing.  Rufus 
and  Mrs.  Blood  with  difficulty  extricated  her  and  set 
her  on  her  legs. 

But  Mother  Rowse  was  vanquished.  The  fight  had 
gone  out  of  her;  she  could  think  of  nothing  but  the 
ruin  of  the  chrysanthemums  and  the  loss  of  her  capital. 
The  whole  stock  was  destroyed.  It  was  as  if  an  el- 
ephant had  made  its  bed  in  a  parterre — not  a  bloom 
was  saleable.  She  wept. 

And  oh,  how  Rufus  laughed!  For  a  taciturn  self- 
repressed  man,  how  he  talked  and  crowed  and  capered ! 
To  Rufus  it  had  been  the  desired  miracle,  as  well  as 
the  most  excruciatingly  delightful  joke  that  he  had 
ever  witnessed. 

Thus  Violet  got  her  black  eye,  from  a  female  com- 
panion; and  she  was  therefore  quite  truthful  when  she 
assured  Mr.  Welby  that  she  had  not  been  struck  by  a 
man. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   ability   of  Primrose  to   continue  paying 
the  weekly  allowance  all  this  time  was  due  to 
the  fact  that  her  acquaintance  with  Geoffrey 
Merritt  had  placed  her  in  good  employment  at  the 
large  electrical  works  where  he  himself  was  engaged. 

Her  first  care  had  been  to  refund  the  two  pounds 
that  she  owed  him,  and  until  she  had  done  this  she  felt 
great  embarrassment  whenever  they  happened  to  meet; 
but  with  the  fulfilment  of  her  obligation  she  soon  came 
to  know  him  better.  Although  well  educated,  he  was 
of  humble  parentage;  until  the  war  he  had  been  a 
science  teacher  at  secondary  schools;  then,  after  serv- 
ing and  getting  wounded  in  a  signals  company,  he  had 
been  claimed  by  a  government  department  as  indispen- 
sable to  the  proper  supply  of  electricity. 

Notwithstanding  his  erudition  he  preserved  his 
original  simplicity  and  kindliness.  Simplicity,  indeed, 
seemed  to  Primrose  the  key-note  of  his  character.  He 
said  the  sort  of  innocent  things  that  other  people 
would  have  avoided  as  being  altogether  too  trite:  such 
as,  "Why  can't  folk  be  kind  to  one  another?  .  .  .  Why 
do  they  never  seem  able  to  look  at  life  from  any  point 
of  view  but  their  own?  ...  It  is  meaner  for  people  to 
throw  stones  if  they  live  in  brick  houses  than  if  they 
live  in  glass  houses,  because  then  it  is  harder  for  the 
injured  party  to  retaliate";  and  so  forth.  But  these 
truisms  found  an  echo  in  the  chastened  heart  of  Prim- 
rose, and  she  therefore  did  not  mind  them. 

301 


302  A  LITTLE  MORE 

His  sister  Joyce  was  rather  a  bore,  and  Primrose 
suffered  weariness  in  her  company  on  the  rare  occa- 
sions of  their  being  thrown  together.  She  was  polite 
to  her  for  the  brother's  sake;  she  liked  and  respected 
Geoffrey  for  being  so  fond  of  Joyce,  and  for  not  him- 
self feeling  bored  by  her. 

She  liked  him,  then,  as  well  as  being  grateful  to 
him.  After  distressing  previous  experiences  she  was 
most  especially  grateful  to  him  because  never  in  the 
very  slightest  degree  did  he  try  to  make  love  to  her. 
His  manner  was  that  of  a  friend,  a  companion,  any- 
thing you  like  except  a  lover.  And  she  thought,  smil- 
ing to  herself,  "Of  course  there  is  no  danger  of  that. 
My  spells  do  not  operate  on  the  juvenile.  If  he  was 
sixty-six  instead  of  twenty-six  I  should  have  to  be 
careful  with  him  all  the  time,  and  this  pleasant  un- 
constrained intercourse  would  be  impossible." 

But  their  intercourse,  though  pleasant,  was  confined 
to  narrow  bounds.  They  walked  in  Regent's  Park  on 
Sunday  afternoons;  but  throughout  the  spring  and 
early  summer  she  still  refused  to  go  with  him  for  that 
whole  day  treat  of  which  he  spoke  so  often. 

It  was  something  he  said  about  himself  that  made 
her  yield. 

They  were  sitting  together  on  a  bench  in  the  park; 
two  smart  young  men  had  just  passed  by  with  two 
graceful  prettily  dressed  girls,  and  perhaps  he  had 
observed  the  eyes  of  Primrose  following  them.  Any- 
how he  said  all  at  once  that  he  laid  no  claim  to  being 
a  gentleman  in  the  conventional  sense  of  the  word. 

"But,  Mr.  Merritt,  you  are  a  gentleman,"  said  Prim- 
rose, flushing  uncomfortably.  "One  of  nature's  gentle- 
men." 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  303 

"They  don't  exist,"  he  said  firmly.  "There  are 
natural  ploughmen,  natural  stokers,  road-menders,  and 
hop-pickers ;  but  there  are  no  natural  gentlemen.  Miss 
Welby,  there's  nothing  natural  about  it — any  more 
than  there  is  in  the  glaze  on  Sevres  china  or  the  com- 
pensating balance  of  a  watch.  It  is  purely  artificial, 
like  everything  else  that  means  high  finish,  careful  prep- 
aration, and  delicate  material." 

"I  simply  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about 
now,"  said  Primrose,  with  a  little  nervous  laugh. 

But  he  would  go  on  talking  about  it,  turning  his 
straw  hat  round  and  round  in  his  hands ;  and  while  he 
talked  she  looked  at  him  timidly  yet  attentively,  as  if 
determined  to  make  up  her  mind  what  he  really  was 
like.  Perhaps  she  had  never  considered  the  question 
before. 

His  face  was  all  right,  pale  and  refined,  with  a 
straight  nose  beneath  a  broad  forehead;  his  nice  dark 
hair  was  wrong,  incorrectly  managed,  brushed  for- 
wards instead  of  backwards,  or  something;  and  his 
clothes,  if  criticized  by  the  fashionable  standards  of 
that  old  world  with  which  she  had  done  for  ever,  well, 
his  clothes  were,  frankly,  awful — too  much  cut,  too 
much  lapel,  too  much  pattern.  But  did  that  matter? 
Not  a  brass  tack. 

He  still  went  on  with  it,  in  a  tone  of  pleading  apol- 
ogy that  increased  her  discomfort ;  saying  now  that  he 
hoped  his  instinct  would  always  make  him  act  decently, 
even  chivalrously,  but  this  was  not  at  all  the  same 
thing  as  being  a  member  of  a  caste  claiming  confidence 
and  trust  almost  as  their  birthright.  For  anyone  to 
affect  to  think  otherwise  was  merely  condescension. 

This  finished  Primrose.     The  idea  that  after  all  his 


304  A  LITTLE  MORE 

generosity  and  kindness  he  could  fancy  she  looked 
down  upon  him  in  any  possible  way  was  quite  insup- 
portable. A  proof  of  good-fellowship  became  im- 
peratively necessary. 

"Really,  Mr.  Merritt,  you're  just  talking  rot — rot 
of  the  deepest  dye.  At  this  date  of  the  world's  his- 
tory !  Utterly  absurd !"  And  she  laughed  gaily. 
Then,  after  a  pause,  "I  say.  May  I  change  my  mind 
about  that  excursion?  I'd  like  to  go  with  you.  Yes, 
I  think  it  will  be  topping  fun." 

Mr.  Merritt's  face  shone  as  if  lamps  had  been  sud- 
denly lit  behind  it;  he  was  so  very  much  pleased. 

That  first  long  Sunday  was  a  glorious  treat  for  her. 
She  felt  absolutely  happy  with  him;  her  assumption 
that  he  merely  regarded  her  as  a  pal,  without  any  of 
the  softness  and  silliness  which  she  had  grown  to  dread, 
made  it  all  delightfully  easy;  she  gave  herself  to  the 
leaping  progress  of  their  friendship  freely  and  joy- 
ously. They  went  far  out  into  the  Thames  Valley; 
and  Primrose  skipped  like  the  young  lambs  in  emerald 
bright  pastures,  hopped  like  a  bird  across  the  moss 
and  pine  needles  in  the  green  dusk  of  a  wood,  babbled 
and  laughed  after  the  manner  of  the  cool  stream  as 
it  tumbled  sparkling  over  a  weir. 

They  had  their  luncheon  in  the  open  air  and  after- 
wards remained  by  the  river  bank,  Primrose  sitting 
deep  in  grasses  and  wild  flowers,  Geoffrey  Merritt  at 
full  length  looking  at  her  face  instead  of  looking  at  the 
boats,  the  view,  or  the  sky. 

As  a  racing  punt  glided  by  she  lifted  her  hand  and 
brushed  the  pretty  stray  hair  from  her  eyes. 

"I  ought  to  have  been  a  boy,  Geoffrey." 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  305 

"Oh  no,  Primrose.  That  would  have  been  an  irre- 
parable disaster." 

"Rot.  No  sickly  compliments  required  between  you 
and  me,  Geoffrey.  I  ought  to  have  been  a  boy — all 
my  feelings  and  inclinations  are  like  a  boy's.  Some- 
body told  me  that  once." 

"Why  do  you  look  so  sad  all  in  a  moment?" 

"Do  I?  Yes,  I  felt  sad.  I  had  begun  to  think  of 
somebody  that  I  was  fond  of — my  greatest  friend." 

"Your  greatest  friend!"  said  Mr.  Merritt  coldly. 
"How  interesting." 

"I  hadn't  seen  him  for  years,  but  we  had  kept  in 
touch  with  each  other." 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Merritt  in  the  same  tone. 
"You  would  not  be  likely  to  drop  your  best  friend." 

"He  was  in  the  army — at  the  front." 

"An  officer,  I  presume?" 

"Yes,  in  the  Guards." 

"Oh,  indeed." 

Mr.  Merritt  abruptly  changed  his  position,  and, 
sitting  up,  for  a  few  minutes  looked  at  the  boats  in- 
stead of  at  Primrose.  When  he  turned  again,  he  saw 
with  anguish  that  her  blue  eyes  were  all  moist,  so  that 
they  seemed  to  him  like  forget-me-nots  seen  through 
morning  dew,  and  two  tears,  like  pearls  on  ivory, 
rolled  down  her  cheeks.  Watching  them  he  felt  that 
his  heart  would  burst.  She  was  so  pretty,  so  sweet, 
so  unattainable — a  creature  of  another  world. 

"Geoffrey  dear,"  she  said  gently.  "Now  that  we 
are  such  real  pals,  I  should  like  to  tell  you  about  him. 
May  I?" 

"Oh,  by  all  means.  Please  do,"  said  Geoffrey,  as 
if  swallowing  something  in  his  throat.  "I  shall  take 
it  as  a  very  gratifying  mark  of  confidence." 


306 

'  "Then  look  at  this."  'She  produced  an  envelope 
from  some  invisible  pocket  and  handed  it  to  him.  "Look 
at  the  address." 

"Ah,  I  see  you  carry  his  letters  about  with  you. 
Very  flattering!" 

"No,  this  is  not  a  letter  from  him,  but  from  a  friend 
of  his.  I  wrote  regularly  to  Hugo — his  name  was 
Hugo  Blyth.  But  of  course  I  merely  signed  Primrose." 

"Oh,  of  course,  of  course.     Naturally." 

"And  you  see  how  that  is  addressed —  'To  Prim- 
rose, care  of  Mrs.  Giles' — that  dreadful  house  I  lodged 
at.  Really  it  was  a  wonderful  chance  that  it  ever 
reached  me."  She  stretched  out  her  hand  and  he  gave 
her  back  the  letter.  "I  want  to  read  it  to  you" ;  and 
she  unfolded  the  worn  paper. 

"First,"  she  said,  looking  up,  "I  must  explain  to 
you  that  he  was  always  laughing — always.  He  never 
stopped.  Well,"  and  she  looked  down  at  the  letter 
again,  "his  friend,  a  brother-officer,  begins  by  saying 
that  he  felt  he  ought  to  write,  because  he  found  my 
letters  on — on  poor  Hugo.  Now  listen.  'We  loved 
him  for  his  unfailing  good  nature  as  well  as  for  his 
gallantry.  He  was  among  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 
Although  not  physically  fitted  for  such  hardships' — 
He  was  very  very  small,"  said  Primrose,  with  a  break 
in  her  voice — "  'fitted  for  such  hardships,  he  never 
complained.  No  matter  what  the  conditions,  he  kept 
us  all  amused;  and  he  died  with  a  laugh  on  his  lips.' ' 

Primrose  wiped  her  eyes,  folded  the  letter,  and  put 
it  back  in  her  pocket.  "Don't  you  think  that's  rather 
fine,  Geoffrey?  'With  a  laugh  on  his  lips.'  It — it 
justifies  it,  doesn't  it? — what  I  told  you — always 
laughing  at  everything — laughing  at  death  too." 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  307 

"Yes,  dear  Primrose,  it  was  fine." 

Primrose  sat  silent,  looking  over  the  stream;  across 
flat  meadows  on  the  further  shore,  to  where  a  low 
wooded  ridge  touched  the  infinite  sky. 

"Thank  you,  Geoffrey,"  she  said,  rousing  herself. 
"Shall  we  stroll  on  now?" 

In  spite  of  all  his  efforts  to  shake  it  off,  there  was 
a  cloud  upon  Geoffrey;  he  seemed  preoccupied,  and 
until  tea  time  answered  at  random.  But  after  tea  he 
recovered  his  cheerfulness.  The  jhomeward  journey 
was  adorable.  At  parting  Primrose  shook  both  his 
hands  and  squeezed  them. 

"I  have  loved  it,"  she  said  enthusiastically;  "simply 
loved  it.  Do  you  understand?  And  I'm  more  grate- 
ful than  words  can  say.  I  can  never,  never  thank  you 
enough." 

Geoffrey  mumbled  his  acknowledgments,  saying  they 
must  soon  have  another  treat  of  the  same  sort. 

And  in  due  course  they  had  further  excursions,  al- 
most if  not  quite  as  good  as  the  first  one ;  then  towards 
the  end  of  September  still  another  was  arranged. 
Primrose  looked  forward  to  it  with  eager  anticipations 
of  pleasure.  But  on  the  day  before  Geoffrey  asked 
diffidently  if  she  would  mind  allowing  him  to  bring  his 
sister  Joyce  with  them. 

Primrose  was  hideously  disappointed,  because  the 
new  arrangement  would  utterly  spoil  the  longed-for 
treat;  but,  her  better  nature  now  governing  her,  she 
agreed  at  once.  She  said  it  would  be  delightful  to 
have  the  company  of  Joyce;  and  indeed,  now  that  the 
idea  of  a  neglected  moping  Joyce  had  been  put  before 
her,  she  could  not  have  enjoyed  the  treat  without  this 
incubus. 


308 

There  was,  however,  no  getting  away  from  the  fact 
that  Joyce  spoilt  things,  changing  a  day  of  mellow 
autumn  sunshine  into  a  long  dull  weariness.  Joyce 
was  heavy  as  lead. 

And  a  little  afterwards  she  upset  Primrose  badly 
by  making  a  ponderous  communication.  She  said 
Primrose  ought  to  know  that  brother  Geoffrey  was  in 
love  with  her. 

"He  will  never  tell  you,"  said  Joyce,  "because  he 
holds  you  so  much  above  him.  But  I  don't  think  it's 
fair  of  you  to  encourage  him  if  you  don't  mean  any- 
thing." 

"I — I  haven't  encouraged  him,"  stammered  Primrose. 

"Look  here" ;  and  Joyce  became  abrupt.  "He  knows 
what  I'm  saying  to  you.  I  told  him  I  should  do  it. 
He  didn't  want  me,  but  I  felt  it  was  my  duty.  And 
what  I  say  to  you  is  this :  If  he  asks  you  out  again 
it's  your  duty  to  say  No,  unless  you  mean  to  go  on  with 
it  and  make  him  happy  at  long  last." 

Before  the  week  was  over  Primrose  received  an  in- 
vitation from  the  brother.  "Dear  Miss  Welby,"  he 
wrote,  "can  you  come  for  an  all-day  treat  on  Sunday? 
You  and  I  only — because  Joyce  has  gone  home  to 
Weymouth." 

Primrose  sat  in  the  quite  decent  little  room  that  his 
kind  assistance  had  rendered  possible  to  her,  and  she 
hesitated  for  a  long  while,  nibbling  the  penholder  and 
frowning  at  the  blank  notepaper.  The  weather  was 
still  gorgeous.  She  wanted  the  treat;  but,  if  she 
trusted  that  meddlesome  girl,  she  ought  not  to  go. 

Suddenly  she  banged  the  pen  into  the  ink-pot,  and 
wrote:  "Dear  Mr.  Merritt,  I  will  Ibme  with  pleasure. 
It  is  extremely  kind  of  you  to  ask  me." 


CHAPTER  IV 

""TW  "TOW  then,  now  then,"  said  the  warden  of 
^^1  Welcome  House.  "Hurry  up  with  your 

^  ^|  grub,  and  let's  put  things  as  straight  as  we 
can." 

It  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  common-room  had 
been  made  gay  with  cheap  decorations.  Flags  drooped 
from  above  the  doorway;  long  festoons  of  artificial 
holly  hung  from  one  flaring  gas-jet  to  another;  and 
half  of  the  end  wall  had  disappeared  under  a  red  and 
gold  placard  which  announced,  in  enormous  capitals, 
"Peace  and  Good-Will."  In  the  midst  of  these  unusual 
splendours  the  numerous  occupants  of  the  room  looked 
more  shabby  and  forlorn  than  ever. 

"Get  on  with  it,  I  tell  you,"  said  the  warden  to  a 
group  crouching  round  the  stove.  "Yes,  it  would  be 
fried  fish  to-night,  of  course — to  fill  the  whole  place 
with  perfume.  I  give  you  ten  minutes  to  finish." 

Those  not  busy  with  their  food  gathered  about  the 
warden  to  hear  his  further  remarks ;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Welby,  two  haggard  djlngy  paupers  among  the  rest, 
listened  attentively. 

The  warden  explained  that  a  party  of  ladies  and 
gentlemen  consisting  of  members  of  the  committee  and 
their  friends  were  coming  to  inspect  the  building  and 
satisfy  themeslves  that  its  inmates  were  all  comfortable 
at  this  joyous  season.  He  warned  them  that  they  must 
all  be  on  their  very  best  behaviour  when  the  nobs  went 

round. 

309 


310  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Now  do  try  to  look  like  a  happy  contented  family," 
he  said.  "That's  what  the  swells  like  to  see.  Speak 
nice  if  you're  spoken  to,  and  smile  otherwise.  And 
listen  to  this,  I  don't  say  but  what  there'll  be  a  bob  or 
two  to  pick  up  here  and  there.  But  no  cadging,  mind 
that." 

While  the  warden  and  his  assistant  set  to  work  tidy- 
ing the  room,  the  Welbys  withdrew  to  a  remote  corner 
and  sat  together  on  a  bench. 

Mr.  Welby  was  exhausted  after  another  long  day 
spent  in  fruitlessly  searching  for  work;  his  whole  atti- 
tude betrayed  dejection;  he  bowed  his  grey  head  and 
stared  at  the  floor.  Mrs.  Welby  close  beside  him  put 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder  with  a  sheltering  protective 
manner,  but  her  eyes  were  very  sad. 

"Now,  father,"  she  whispered,  in  as  cheerful  a  tone 
as  she  could  produce,  "don't  you  go  and  lose  heart." 

"Mother,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  something  like  a 
groan,  "I  am  losing  heart.  What's  to  happen  to  us?" 

"Did  you  speak  again  to  Mr.  Tompkinson  about 
giving  us  an  extension?" 

"Yes,  and  the  answer  was  the  same  as  before:  Not 
to  be  thought  of." 

To-morrow  was  Christmas  Day,  and  on  Boxing  Day 
the  inexorable  rules  of  Welcome  House,  framed  without 
consideration  of  bank  holidays,  ordained  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Welby  must  go  out  into  the  world  and  remain 
there  at  least  a  fortnight  before  again  enjoying  the 
benefits  of  the  establishment.  Go  they  must,  although, 
as  Mr.  Welby  said,  they  knew  not  where  to  lay  their 
heads. 

"Mother,  to-night  I  feel  like  giving  up  the  struggle. 
This  is  the  end.  It  means  the  workhouse." 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  311 

"No,  no."  Mrs.  Welby  shivered  and  then  patted 
her  husband's  shoulder  with  a  sort  of  hysterical  gaiety. 
"Father,  this  isn't  like  you.  Where's  your  philoso- 
phy? And  where's  your  proverbs?  It's  a  long  lane, 
what?  The  darkest  clouds  have  silver  linings.  Come. 
Jack  may  bring  us  a  bit  of  good  news  perhaps." 

"Jack!"  Mr.  Welby  groaned  again.  "Jack's  as 
hard  pushed  as  ourselves.  It  never  rains  but  it 
pours.  I  met  him  this  morning  with  his  logs  o*  wood, 
and  he's  almost  out  of  his  mind  about  Amabel.  Do 
what  he  will,  he  can't  get  the  promise  of  her  being 
taken  into  a  hospital  for  her  trouble.  And  the  time's 
not  so  far  off.  The  poor  boy  said  to  me  'Father,  is 
there  any  real  charity  or  decent  feeling  left  in  Eng- 
land?'" 

The  warden,  ignoring  all  protests,  had  opened  the 
windows  in  order  to  blow  away  the  odour  of  fried  fish ; 
and  now  a  considerable  outcry  arose  from  various  parts 
of  the  room. 

"Oh,  shut  them  windows,  do.  .  .  .  Yes,  for  mercy's 
sake  shut  them  windows.  .  .  .  Are  we  all  to  be  froze?" 

"Butchered  to  make  a  patricians'  holiday,"  said  Mr. 
Mordant  the  scribe. 

Seated  at  the  table  near  the  Welbys,  he  was  dictating 
to  one  of  his  clients  the  conclusion  of  a  begging  letter, 
and  the  draught  from  the  windows  fluttered  his  note- 
book and  broke  the  thread  of  his  ideas.  "Sullen  and 
oppressive  jailer,"  he  called  irritably  to  the  warden, 
"do  thine  office  with  some  regard  to  the  weakness  of 
humanity." 

"Oh,  you  go  along,"  said  the  warden,  laughing  good- 
humouredly.  "None  of  your  nonsense,  Mr.  Mordant. 
There" ;  and  he  closed  the  windows.  "You're  like  a  lot 


312  A  LITTLE  MORE 

of  marmoset  monkeys  at  the  Zoo — as  though  you'd  all 
perish  if  you  got  a  breath  of  fresh  air." 

Mr.  Mordant  finished  his  dictation.  "  'It  is  Christ- 
mas Eve,  when  all  those  who  have  friends  are  making 
merry,  and  alone  and  neglected  in  my  garret ' ' 

"I  can't  spell  garret." 

"Never  mind.  Go  on.  'Alone  and  neglected  in  my 
garret,  I  send  you  this  appeal  with  tears,  with  tears, 
with  tears.'  " 

"What,  put  that  three  times?" 

"Yes,  the  repetition  is  both  beautiful  and  affecting. 
Now  dab  a  stamp  on  the  envelope,  and  there  you  are." 

"But  half  a  minute,"  said  the  client  doubtfully. 
"You  made  me  tell  him  at  the  beginning  I  was  penniless. 
How  am  I  supposed  to  get  the  stamp?" 

"A  shrewd  question,"  said  the  scribe,  gratified  by 
evidence  of  intelligence  where  he  had  not  looked  for  it. 
"As  you  detect,  it  would  be  far  more  realistic  natural- 
istic to  omit  the  stamp ;  but  long  experience  has  taught 
us  that  the  stampless  letter  arouses  so  much  prejudice 
and  hostility  in  the  breast  of  the  recipient  that  the 
effect  aimed  at  is  lost.  Stamp  it." 

The  warden  and  his  assistant  had  brought  in  a  har- 
monium, which  they  placed  at  the  far  end  of  the  room 
near  the  stove.  They  were  followed  by  Mr.  Tomkin- 
son,  the  secretary,  a  bald  fussy  little  man. 

"Good  evening,  my  friends,  good  evening,"  said  Mr. 
Tomkinson  fussily.  "Which  of  you  is  it  who  is  going 
to  help  with  the  music?" 

"Me,  sir";  and  Mr.  Board  came  forward  squinting. 

"Good,"  said  Mr.  Tomkinson.  "You  had  better  try 
the  instrument."  And  he  clapped  his  hands  loudly  to 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  313 

secure  silence.  "Now  I  want  you  all  to  understand 
that  when  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  enter  you  are  to 
stand  up  at  once.  Then  immediately  you  will  sing 
God  Save  the  King." 

"Yes,  sir.  .  .  .  We  most  of  us  know  that  tune,  sir." 

"I  want  you  to  sing  it  quietly  but  fervently,  and 
with  reverence — with  the  utmost  reverence." 

"Is  the  King  himself  expected?"  somebody  asked. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Mr.  Tomkinson.  "What 
a  ridiculous  question.  No,  I  ask  for  reverence,  be- 
cause some  of  you  may  not  know — or  may  have  for- 
gotten— that  God  Save  the  King  is  a  hymn.  It  is 
simply  a  hymn." 

"God  Save  the  King  a  hymn?  .  .  .  Well,  I  never 
heard  that  before.  .  ;  .  Live  and  learn.  .  .  .  All  right, 
sir." 

"If  an  encore  should  be  required,"said  Mr.  Board 
insinuatingly,  "I  could  sing  them  Down  on  the  Swanny 
River." 

"No,  nothing  but  the  national  anthem." 

"One  more  word,"  said  Mr.  Tomkinson  at  the  door. 
"Our  visitors  will  pass  freely  among  you,  talking  pos- 
sibly to  one  or  another,  up  and  down  the  room.  They 
wish  to  mingle  with  you  for  a  brief  space  at  this  festive 
season,  which  should — and  does — draw  all  hearts  closer 
together  than  on  other  occasions.  It  is  a  very  charm- 
ing and  pretty  idea  on  the  part  of  our  guests,  but,  you 
understand,  we  don't  want  to  see  it  abused." 

"You  heard  his  words,"  said  the  warden  severely, 
when  Mr.  Tomkinson  had  disappeared.  "It's  what  I've 
told  you  already.  No  cadging." 

"Hush!     Here  they  are." 


314  A  LITTLE  MORE 

The  door  had  opened;  Mr.  Board  scuttled  across 
to  the  harmonium;  everybody  prepared  to  stand  up. 
But  it  was  a  false  alarm.  The  warden  admitted  not 
the  expected  grand  personages  but  only  two  humble 
visitors  for  some  of  themselves. 

"It's  against  the  rules,  your  being  present  at  such  a 
time,"  said  the  warden,  "but  I  wink  at  it.  Yes,  I'll 
wink  at  it,  since  the  old  philosopher  expects  you.  But 
keep  in  the  background." 

"Righto,"  said  Jack  curtly. 

"Here,  my  boy.  Come  over  here,"  called  Mr.  Welby. 
"Amabel,  my  pet,  very  glad  to  see  you." 

Amabel  sat  on  the  bench  beside  her  mother-in-law 
and  they  kissed  affectionately.  She  was  as  pretty  as 
ever,  but  her  face  had  grown  thin  and  white  again; 
her  eyes  had  an  expression  of  resigned  endurance, 
mingled  now  and  then  with  the  anxiousness  that  was 
symptomatic  of  her  state  of  health;  her  old  friends  of 
France  would  perhaps  scarcely  have  recognized  in  this 
shabbily  garbed  suffering  creature  the  strong  valiant 
Nurse  Welby  who  under  shell  fire  volunteered  to  march 
twenty  miles  so  that  wounded  men  might  ride. 

"You  ought  by  rights  to  drink  a  lot  of  milk,"  Mrs. 
Welby  was  saying;  "and  a  glass  of  oatmeal  stout  at 
twelve  every  morning  wouldn't  be  amiss.  I  don't  know 
how  many  bottles  of  stout  I  drank  before  the  birth  of 
Jack.  Mr.  Welby  used  to  buy  them  by  the  dozen. 
But  what's  the  use  of  talking  about  stout?"  and  she 
sighed. 

She  put  her  arm  round  Amabel's  waist  and  they 
whispered  confidentially,  while  Jack  sat  chatting  with 
his  father. 

"So    you've   got    a    Christmas    party,"    said    Jack. 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  315 

"They  didn't  want  to  let  us  in.  Mab  and  I'll  clear  out 
in  ten  minutes.  How  are  you,  old  chap?" 

"Jack,  I'm  low — regular  down  on  my  luck." 

Jack  moved  his  stiff  arm  and  laid  the  hand  belonging 
to  the  other  arm  on  his  father's  knee. 

"Is  little  Prim  still  helping  you?" 

"Yes,  bless  her.  But,  as  your  mother  says,  it's  a 
drop  in  the  ocean.  They  won't  let  us  stay  here." 

"Curse  them,"  said  Jack,  under  his  breath.  "They're 
all  alike.  Curse  them." 

Poor  Jack  was  but  the  dishonoured  ghost  of  that 
alert  bronzed  sergeant  who  waited  last  March  on  the 
C.C.S.  duck-boards,  or  of  the  resourceful  commander 
who  gallantly  held  the  sunk  road.  Availing  himself  of 
the  lenient  regulation,  he  still  wore  khaki;  but  his 
service  dress,  all  soiled  and  torn,  without  regimental 
buttons  or  badges,  hung  loosely  about  his  limbs,  and 
the  coloured  muffler  round  his  neck  seemed  ugly,  in- 
congruous, and  decadent.  He  himself  had  a  gloomy 
quarrelsome  air  that  was  very  unattractive;  he  seemed 
to  be  a  man  smarting  under  a  sense  of  cruel  injustice 
and  weary  from  a  long  course  of  misfortunes.  He 
confessed  that  this  was  in  fact  his  condition  of  mind 
when  presently  Mr.  Welby  reproved  him  for  rudeness 
to  a  friend. 

Mr.  Board,  after  sidling  across  to  Mrs.  Welby,  had 
bothered  her  with  compliments  about  the  family. 

"A  bevy  of  beauties,  if  I  may  say  so,"  he  whispered 
to  Mrs.  Welby,  and  squinted  admiringly  at  Amabel. 
"Your  young  relatives  surpass  one  another,  ma'am. 
Good  evening,  miss.  Pleased  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance. Are  you  fond  of  music  ?"  Then,  finding  Amabel 
reserved  if  not  haughty,  he  turned  again  to  Mrs.  Welby. 


316  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"We  haven't  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  your  daughter 
here  lately — Miss  Violet.  Might  I  inquire  why?" 

Mrs.  Welby,  with  some  slight  reluctance,  explained 
that  she  had  not  any  news  of  Violet.  Violet  had  again 
disappeared. 

"Disappeared !"  said  Mr.  Board  gallantly.  "But 
not  alone!  Oh,  no,  let  us  hope  that  she  has  a  con- 
genial companion  in  her  disappearance.  In  the  case  of 
such  a  singularly  fine  piece  of  goods,  it  would  be  too 

strange  to  disappear  all  by  herself.  Anyways " 

and  he  bowed  and  squinted  towards  Amabel — "she  has 
sent  us  a  very  charming  substitute  in  her  place." 

Then  Jack  got  up  from  the  bench  and  tapped  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"It's  difficult  to  see,"  said  Jack,  with  quiet  ferocity, 
"whether  you're  ogling  my  wife  or  me,  or  whether 
you're  giving  an  eye  to  both  of  us;  but  either  way 
chuck  it.  Wash  off.  Get." 

"Gently,  gently,"  said  his  father,  as  Mr.  Board 
slunk  away  discomfited.  "No  need  to  be  rude  about 
it,  Jack.  That's  quite  a  friend  of  ours." 

"Sorry,"  said  Jack  meekly,  "but  I  seem  to  lose  my 
temper  nowadays.  I — well,  I'm  fed  up — and  I  begin 
to  see  red.  When  I  think  of  Mab  and  all  she's  going 
through  for  my  sake,  I  feel  like  smashing  a  plate-glass 
window  or  stealing  half  a  sheep  out  of  a  butcher's 
shop." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "And  speak  lower, 
Jack.  I  think  we  are  overheard";  and  he  glanced  at 
Mr.  Mordant  hovering  near.  "Jack,  has  that  lord  you 
mentioned — has  he  answered  about  the  ticket  for  Mab  ?" 

"Not  a  word.     Yet,"  Jack  added  bitterly,  "I  assure 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  317 

you,  father,  I  sunk  my  last  vestige  of  pride.  I  wrote 
him  a  letter  that  might  melt  a  stone." 

"Pardon  me  for  interrupting,"  said  Mr.  Mordant. 
"But  it  is  a  great  art — the  letter  that  will  draw  blood 
from  a  stone.  It  would  be  presumptuous  for  me  to 
say  that  I  possess  the  art,  but  if  I  can  be  of  any  assist- 
ance by  giving  you  a  few  hints  and " 

"Mind  your  own  business,"  said  Jack. 

"But  this  is  my  business,"  said  the  scribe  suavely. 
"In  confidence,  I  have  made  it  my  business  for  a  number 
of  years,  and " 

"Oh,  go  to  hell,"  said  Jack. 

Mr.  Mordant  strolled  away,  and  Mr.  Welby  again 
remonstrated. 

"My  dear  boy,  he  is  a  friend  of  your  mother's  a& 
well  as  mine.  That's  two  of  our  best  friends  here 
you've  huffed  by  your  quick  temper." 

"Sorry.  Father,  I  can't  help  it.  We'll  be  off  now. 
We've  a  long  trudge." 

"No,  stay  half  an  hour  anyhow.  For  this  reason, 
Jack.  Among  the  people  coming  to  look  at  us  there 
may  be  some  wealthy  person  with  power  to  give  you 
the  ticket.  You  can  but  ask." 

"Attention!"  called  the  warden. 

The  committee  and  their  visitors  trooped  into  the 
room.  All  the  inmates  rose  to  their  feet;  Mr.  Board 
struck  a  chord  on  the  harmonium,  and  the  song  burst 
forth  : 

"God  save  our  gracious  King, 
Long  live  our  noble  King!" 

During  the  song,  all  eyes  were  upon  the  group  of 


318  A  LITTLE  MORE 

fortunate  prosperous  people  standing-  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  room.  By  contrast  they  looked  aggres- 
sively well  nourished,  well  clothed,  and  well  pleased  with 
themselves.  A  big  florid  man  in  spectacles  was  known 
to  old  stagers  as  Sir  Edgar,  their  governor  and  trustee ; 
the  stout  red-faced  lady  was  Mrs.  Parminter,  most 
active  and  indefatigable  of  all  committee-women ;  a  tall, 
white-haired  man,  a  visitor,  impressed  one  by  the  ex- 
treme, almost  fatuous  benevolence  of  his  expression. 
The  others,  especially  some  young  men  who  wore  dress 
clothes  beneath  their  fur  coats,  were  nondescript,  ex- 
cept for  a  girl  with  fair  hair,  pale  eyes,  and  long  neck, 
who  stood  prominently,  a  little  way  in  advance  of  the 
main  body.  She  had  a  nervous  breathless  manner,  and 
throughout  the  song  she  kept  opening  and  shutting  her 
mouth,  as  if  desirous  of  joining  in,  but  too  timid  to 
make  the  plunge.  Directly  the  song  was  over  she 
spoke. 

"Lady  Augusta,"  said  Sir  Edgar,  giving  her  her  cue, 
"will  you  now  say  a  few  words  to  them?" 

"The  words  I  wish  to  say,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  in  a 
paroxysm  of  nervousness,  "are  very  old  words,  but  I 
hope  none  the  worse  for  that."  And  she  looked  round 
with  a  sort  of  Joan  of  Arc  smile,  as  though  suffering 
torments,  but  too  brave  and  good  to  give  cries  of  pain. 

"Those  words  which  I  wish  to  say  are,  as  I  hope 
you  will  all  agree,  seasonable  words ;  and  /  think,"  with 
another  tortured  smile,  "they  sound  better  and  nicer 
every  year,  when  the  time  comes  round  to  say  them 
again.  I  wish  to  say,"  continued  Lady  Augusta, 
rather  loudly  and  shrilly,  "not  only  for  myself,  but 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  accompany  me,  from  all 
of  us,  we  wish  you  a  very  happy  Christmas." 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  319 

Mr.  Tomkinson,  the  secretary,  with  his  back  to  the 
room,  clapped  his  hands  energetically,  and,  accepting 
this  hint,  the  inmates  gave  a  hearty  round  of  applause. 

"I  only  .wish  to  add,"  said  Lady  Augusta,  faintly 
and  gaspingly,  "that  I  have  brought  you  some  choc- 
olates." Then,  boldly  leading  the  way  for  her  com- 
panions, she  began  to  mingle  with  the  inmates.  One 
of  the  young  men  in  dress  clothes  followed  her,  carry- 
ing a  fairly  large  parcel,  and  as  they  moved  to  and 
fro,  she  could  be  heard  repeating  kindly  inquiries.  "Do 
you  like  chocolates?  I  hope  so.  Because  I  want  you 
to  accept  this  little  box  that  I  have  taken  the  liberty 
of  bringing.  Quite  a  small  box.  Only  a  little  sou- 
venir." 

One  heard  too,  from  all  directions,  little  scraps  of 
friendly  talk  between  inmates  and  visitors.  The  vis- 
itors were  asking  questions  and  showing  much  sym- 
pathy and  kindliness.  They  also  paid  compliments. 

"So  tasteful,  those  decorations.  ...  It  is  all  very 
nice  and  homey.  .  .  .  Such  a  lot  of  smiling  faces." 

"Yes,  that's  what  we  desire  to  see,"  said  the  sec- 
retary as  he  passed  swiftly  hither  and  thither,  watch- 
ful and  fussy.  "Like  a  happy  contented  family,  aren't 
they?" 

"Out  of  work,  I  am,"  said  a  blotchy  young  woman. 

"That  is  the  more  sad,"  said  a  lady  visitor;  "since 
it  was  no  fault  of  your  own." 

"My  father,"  said  the  young  woman,  "was  a 
collector  of  taxes.  He  is  an  angel  in  heaven  now — 
and  if  he  looks  down  and  sees  to  what  I've  fallen,  well, 
I  should  be  sorry  to  think  he  does." 

"I  too  ha/e  known  better  days,"  said  somebody  else, 
whiningly. 


320  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Better  days !  If  it  comes  to  that,"  said  Mr.  Welby. 
"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  may  I  have  one  word?"  He  had 
fastened  upon  Sir  Edgar,  the  florid  governor,  who  was 
escorting  two  elderly  ladies;  and  he  asked  him  at  once 
if  by  a  special  act  of  grace  he  might  be  allowed  to 
remain  in  residence  at  Welcome  House. 

"Oh,  do  say  yes,"  cried  one  of  the  elderly  ladies. 
**I  should  so  much  like  him  to  have  his  wish." 

Sir  Edgar  looked  doubtful,  and  the  ubiquitous  sec- 
retary intervened. 

"There  is  the  rule,"  he  said.  "I  am  afraid  that 
rules  are  rules." 

"Yes,  there's  the  difficulty,"  said  Sir  Edgar.  "You 
see  that,  Mrs.  Melrose,  don't  you?  Rules  are  rules." 

"But  every  rule  can  have  an  exception,"  urged  Mr. 
Welby  eagerly ;  "and  I  do  submit,  Sir  Edgar,  that  the 
case  of  my  old  woman  and  myself  is  a  case  where  ex- 
ceptions can  and  should  be  made.  Mine  is  not  an 

ordinary  case.     I'd  like  to  tell  you  the  hist No, 

don't  turn  your  back,  sir.     Hear  me  out." 

The  secretary  was  drawing  Sir  Edgar  away,  but  a 
middle-aged  fresh-complexioned  clergyman  stepped  into 
his  place  and  beamed  at  Mr.  Welby  encouragingly. 

"Then  I'd  like  to  tell  you,  sir,  the  surprising  history 
of  myself  and  my  family." 

"Don't  forget,"  said  the  secretary  in  a  whisper  to 
the  clergyman,  "that  one  has  to  take  all  one  hears 
with  a  grain  of  salt." 

"I  quite  understand,"  whispered  the  clergyman  over 
his  shoulder.  Then  he  turned  to  listen.  "Go  on,  my 
good  friend." 

"You  see  in  me,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  emotion, 
"a  man  who  has  been  worse  treated  by  the  laws  of 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  321 

this  country — yes,  worse,  I  do  believe,  than  any  man 
that  ever  lived."  Then  volubly,  but  ramblingly,  he 
narrated  his  downfall  and  subsequent  adventures;  tell- 
ing the  clergyman  and  the  two  elderly  ladies  how  his 
poor  little  hoard  had  been  swamped  by  the  business 
obligations;  how  his  own  lawyers  had  let  him  down  in 
regard  to  large  claims  against  the  government;  how 
he  had  enjoyed  gleams  of  hope  because  other  lawyers 
had  advised  him  that  those  claims  were  valid,  that 
they  only  needed  pushing,  and  that  he  ought  if  nec- 
essary to  take  them  to  the  steps  of  the  throne. 

"But  the  throne  is  a  long  way  off,"  said  Mr.Welby ; 
"and  its  steps  are  too  steep  for  a  poor  devil  like  me 
to  climb.  I  don't  hope  any  longer.  It  was  just  their 
talk — that  government  and  law  mean  justice,  yes,  and 
common-sense  and  fair  dealing,  not  to  mention  mercy. 
No  mistake  about  their  acts.  They  turned  me  and 
mine  out  into  the  streets — would  have  taken  the  clothes 
off  our  backs  if  they  could, — and  we  may  starve  for 
all  any  one  cares." 

The  visitors,  listening  with  great  politeness,  were 
plainly  incredulous.  When  Mr.  Welby  ceased  speak- 
ing they  glanced  at  one  another  and  nodded  their 
heads. 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  the  clergyman,  looking  Mr.  Welby 
full  in  the  face.  "Yes,  the  old  story." 

"Do  you  say  that  to  me,  sir?"  Mr.  Welby  recoiled 
as  if  he  had  been  struck.  "The  old  story  1"  And  he 
repeated  the  words  in  a  low  despairing  voice.  "The 
old  story." 

It  was  as  if  the  words  pierced  him  with  sharp  knives. 
Did  he  remember  how  he  had  once  used  those  very 
words  himself? 


322  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Now  I  am  going  to  give  you  this  small  present," 
said  one  of  the  ladies  briskly,  "in  the  hope  that  it  may 
help  you  in  your  efforts  to  regain  the  position  in  soci- 
ety that  you  have  forfeited.  Half  a  crown!  I  wish 
I  could  make  it  a  little  more" ;  and  she  offered  him  the 
coin. 

Mr.  Welby  drawing  back  still  further  refused  the 
gift.  But  Mrs.  Welby  by  his  elbow  showed  such 
evident  distress  at  the  refusal  that  the  visitor  observed 
her  agitation  and  presently  gave  the  half-crown  to 
her. 

"Thank  you  a  thousand  times,"  said  Mrs.  Welby, 
taking  it.  "Oh !" 

The  warden  had  roughly  put  his  hand  on  her  shoul- 
der and  he  prevented  her  from  stirring. 

"Now  then,"  he  said  with  the  utmost  sternness. 
"Cadging!  Would  you?  I  warned  you  no  cadging." 

"Oh,  indeed  she  did  not  cadge,"  said  the  kind-hearted 
lady.  "Not  in  the  least.  I  offered  it  to  her  as  a  free 
gift." 

"If  that's  so,  ma'am,"  said  the  warden,  "then  so 
be  it";  and,  allowing  Mrs.  Welby  to  return  to  her 
husband,  he  went  to  a  part  of  the  room  where  too 
much  noise  was  being  made. 

Jack  and  Amabel  standing  side  by  side  were  being 
questioned  by  the  visitors.  Jack,  fortunately  getting 
possession  of  the  white-haired  benevolent  old  gentle- 
man, had  asked  him  for  a  ticket  that  would  admit  the 
holder  to  a  maternity  hospital. 

"Oh,  surely,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  overflowing 
with  benevolence,  "that  can  be  managed — yes,  surely. 
One  of  these  ladies?" 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  323 

"She's  pretty,"  said  one  of  them,  looking  at  Amabel. 
"Distinctly  pretty." 

"By  the  way,"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "You  are 
man  and  wife?" 

"Of  course  we  are,"  said  Jack. 

"I  mean,  legally  married?" 

"So  do  I,"  said  Jack. 

"I  had  no  wish  to  pry  into  your  personal  affairs," 
said  the  old  gentleman  benevolently ;  "but  they  are  very 
particular  at  all  these  institutions.  That's  why  I 
asked  the  question." 

"Well,  you've  had  your  answer,"  said  Jack  very 
curtly;  and  Amabel  pulled  his  coat  sleeve  as  a  hint 
that  he  must  restrain  himself. 

"Are  you  fond  of  chocolates?"  said  Lady  Augusta. 
She  had  just  completed  her  round,  and  she  offered 
Jack  a  choice  of  her  last  few  boxes.  "As  a  small 
souvenir." 

"No,  thank  you,  Lady  Augusta,"  said  Jack  in  the 
same  tone.  "I  don't  want  a  chocolate.  I  want  a 
hospital  ticket  for  my  wife.  She's  about  to  become  a 
mother." 

Lady  Augusta  for  a  moment  looked  shocked  or 
pained  by  these  simple  truths  and  plain  phrases;  then, 
after  gasping,  she  faced  them  bravely. 

"About  to  become  a  mother!  Oh,  but  how  interest- 
ing." 

"Interesting!"  said  Jack,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "Yes, 
that's  the  word  usually  applied  to  people  in  her  condi- 
tion. That's  my  excuse  for  trying  to  arouse  interest. 
But  so  far  she  and  I  are  the  only  people  who  seem 
to  take  any." 


324  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Will  it  be  your  first?"  asked  Lady  Augusta.  "Are 
you  recently  married?" 

"Yes,  it  will  be  our  first.  No,  not  recently.  We 
were  married  when  the  war  broke  out." 

"That  was  brave  of  you." 

"No,  it  was  brave  of  her,"  said  Jack,  "and  foolish 
too.  For  this  is  her  reward.  I've  dragged  her  down 
with  me  to  this." 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  a  languid  lady-visitor,  with  a  gold 
bottle  of  smelling  salts.  "Another  of  these  war  mar- 
riages"; and  she  snuffed  at  her  salts. 

"He  admits  himself  that  it  was  foolish,"  said  some- 
body else.  "He  owns  he  has  dragged  her  down." 

"And  quite  good-looking  too." 

Then  in  reply  to  questions  Jack  told  them  all  that 
had  happened  to  him,  including  his  acceptance  of  dis- 
charge with  a  gratuity  and  the  failure  of  the  shop. 
If  Mr.  Welby  was  voluble,  the  words  poured  out  of 
Jack  like  a  torrent.  He  spoke  loudly,  and  too  warmly, 
as  people  are  apt  to  do  when  they  feel  flames  of  indig- 
nation inside  them. 

"And  since  1914,  may  I  ask  where  you  have  been?" 

"On  the  western  front — till  I  was  knocked  out  last 
March." 

The  redoubtable  Mrs.  Parminter,  together  with  a 
hard  cold  sort  of  young  man,  had  joined  the  group 
that  surrounded  Jack;  and  she  soon  began  to  question. 
But  not  until  much  of  Jack's  tale  had  been  repeated 
to  her  by  the  others.  They  all  knew  it  now  and  seemed 
to  Jike  repeating  it. 

"A  war  marriage.  .  .  .  Gave  up  his  chance  of  a  pen- 
sion. .  .  .  Ruined  by  speculation.  .  .  .  The  wife  is 
pretty"  .  .  .  and  so  on. 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  325 

There  were  confidential  whispers  also.  "I  doubt  if 
deserving.  .  .  .  Rather  inexplicable.  .  .  .  More  behind 
it  than  meets  the  eye." 

"We  wish,  naturally,"  said  Mrs.  Parminter,  "to 
assist  you  and  all  other  ex-soldiers,  as  far  as  lies  in 
our  power.  What  are  you  doing  now?" 

"Selling  logs  on  a  barrow." 

"You  can't  find  yourself  anything  better  to  do  than 
that?" 

"No.     Can  you?" 

"There  is  no  need  to  raise  your  voice,"  said  the  hard 
man.  "We  are  none  of  us  deaf." 

"Sorry.  I  lost  my  drawing-room  manners  on  Salis- 
bury Plain  and  had  no  time  to  recover  them  in  France." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  the  hard  man  coldly,  "I  see  you  like 
alluding  to  your  service  in  the  army.  You  are  nat- 
urally proud  of  it." 

"I'm  not  ashamed  of  it." 

"But  wasn't  it  rather  imprudent  of  you  to  leave  the 
army?" 

"Not  so  imprudent  as  I  was  to  join  it,"  said  Jack 
quickly  and  hotly.  "That  was  the  imprudence,  com- 
mitted by  me  and  two  million  other  fools — when  I  was 
imprudent  enough  to  believe  my  country  would  be 
grateful  to  me  after  I'd  sweated  and  bled  for  it." 

"Oh,  spare  us  that  battered  old  stereo,"  said  the 
hard  man,  with  a  frigid  smile.  "I  dare  say  you  did 
not  exude  more  blood  or  transpire  more  freely  at  the 
pores  than  anybody  else." 

"Perhaps  not.  No  more  than  you,  for  instance." 
Jack  looked  at  the  hard  man's  eyes,  and  then  abruptly 
turned  his  back  on  him. 


326  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"What,"  asked  Mrs.  Parminter,  "was  your  trade 
before  the  war?" 

"I  was  a  clerk  in  an  insurance  office." 

"Why  don't  you  apply  to  be  taken  back  ?" 

"I  have.     And  they  won't  take  me." 

"Really?     I  am  surprised  at  that.     I  wonder  why?" 

"I  had  no  claim  on  them.  I  had  left  them,  rather 
hurriedly,  some  time  before  the  war — believing  then 
that  my  future  was  secure." 

"Ah,  there  you  are — imprudent,"  said  Mrs.  Par- 
minter, shaking  her  head  at  him  with  a  kind  of  play- 
ful reproachfulness.  "I  am  afraid  you've  been  some- 
what imprudent  all  through." 

"About  the  insurance  office?"  said  the  hard  man. 
He  had  worked  round  to  the  front  again.  "Perhaps 
I  could  be  of  assistance  in  that  connection.  You  say 
that  they  wouldn't  take  you  back — but  they  had  noth- 
ing against  you?" 

"No,"  and  Jack  laughed  very  bitterly.  "Their 
other  clerks  had  all  been  officers.  They  would  have 
taken  me  back  if  I  had  been  given  a  commission." 

"But — I  don't  want  to  be  unkind — but  if  after  serv- 
ing so  long — doesn't  that  mean  you  had  done  nothing 
to  deserve  a  commission?  I  must  confess  I  see  their 
point  of  view." 

Jack  stepped  close  to  the  hard  man  and  spoke  in  a 
quiet  but  vibrating  voice. 

"Did  you  serve  in  the  war  yourself?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"As  a  soldier?" 

"No,  my  services  were  judged  indispensable  for 
other " 

"So  I  thought,"  said  Jack.  "Then  don't  you  talk 
about  things  you  can't  understand." 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  327 

Then  he  raised  his  voice  as  he  turned  round. 

"Are  you  going  to  help  me  or  not?"  he  said  loudly. 
"Lady  Augusta,  don't  stare  but  do  something;  be  a 
sportsman  and  help  us,  for  old  time's  sake.  Lady 
Augusta,  you  don't  remember  me,  of  course,  but  I'm 
Jack  Welby.  Stimulate  your  memory  and  help  us. 
I  danced  with  you  and  took  you  down  to  supper  at 
Lady  Rougemont's.  We  dined  together  with  the  Field- 
Larkers  at  Ranelagh;  and  you  and  I  came  back  to- 
gether, alone,  in  a  taxi." 

"Oh,  please,"  cried  Lady  Augusta  faintly. 

"We  didn't  come  straight  home.  We  drove 
round " 

"Oh,  no.  Oh,  no."  Beneath  this  startlingly  unex- 
pected attack  Lady  Augusta  collapsed.  She  gasped 
and  shivered  while  the  other  ladies  and  gentlemen  all 
talked  at  once. 

"Is  it  possible?  .  .  .  But  if  so,  how  rude  of  him! 
.  .  .  What  things  to  say." 

The  surprise  and  the  confusion  were  general,  and  in 
the  midst  of  it  all  Jack  let  fly.  He  had  lost  control 
of  himself,  he  said  more  wild  and  foolish  things;  he 
was  ruder  and  ruder  still.  He  frightened  the  visitors 
by  his  loudness  and  violence. 

"We  are  not  pitchers  and  sorners.  Look  at  us. 
If  I'm  angry,  isn't  your  inhumanity  enough  to  make  a 
man  angry — yes,  to  drive  a  man  out  of  his  mind? 
That's  a  lie.  I'm  not  undeserving.  Oh,  yes,  you  said 
it  all  right.  I  heard  you  whispering  it  to  that  sniffling 
woman  with  the  salts.  And  this  blighter — this  indis- 
pensable crawling  worm  who  insulted  me — nodded  his 
ugly  head.  I'll  knock  it  off  your  shoulders  if  you  do 
it  again."  The  visitors  were  seriously  frightened, 


328  A  LITTLE  MORE 

shrinking  away,  except  the  lady  with  the  salts,  who 
seemed  paralysed  and  could  only  sniff  feebly.  "Look 
at  my  wife.  She's  a  lady — a  better  lady  than  any  one 
of  you.  Look  at  this  woman,  sniffing  as  if  I  smelt 
bad.  I'll  smell  worse  when  you've  all  had  your  way 
with  me,  and  I'm  lying  dead  in  a  ditch.  That's  right, 
sniff." 

The  governor  and  the  secretary  had  arrived.  The 
clergyman  was  protesting. 

"Such  unseemly  behaviour.  .  .  .  Most  disgraceful. 
.  .  .  Most  disgraceful." 

Then  the  discovery  was  made.  "What!  Oh,  no? 
Why,  these  are  not  inmates  at  all.  They  are  intruders 
— simply  intruders.  They  are  people  who  have  pushed 
in  out  of  the  street." 

Jack  and  Amabel  were  ignominiously  ejected  from 
Welcome  House. 

It  was  late  now  and  the  room  was  almost  empty. 
Nearly  all  the  gas-jets  had  been  turned  off,  but  the 
dying  fire  from  time  to  time  spurted  out  little  flames 
that  cast  monstrous  shadows  of  the  old  man  and  woman 
at  the  end  of  a  bench,  and  made  them  dance  upon  the 
wall. 

"Let's  go  to  bed." 

"It's  what  I've  been  saying  for  the  last  half  hour." 

But  still  they  sat  motionless,  as  if  without  strength 
to  drag  themselves  away. 

Then  they  slowly  turned  their  heads  at  the  sound 
of  the  warden's  voice  in  the  open  doorway. 

"You  can't  see  them,  ma'am.  It's  no  good.  I've 
got  into  trouble  once  already  to-night." 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  329 

But  even  as  he  spoke  thus  authoritatively,  a  well- 
dressed  middle-aged  woman  pushed  past  him  and 
entered  the  room. 

"Of  course  I  can  see  them,"  she  said  firmly.  "This 
isn't  Newgate  that  I'm  aware  of.  Besides,  if  it  was, 
you  shouldn't  stop  me";  and  she  shook  her  fur  stole 
and  rattled  her  handbag  indignantly.  "There,  put 
that  in  your  pocket  and  don't  talk  nonsense."  She 
gave  the  warden  his  tip,  and  advancing  boldly  towards 
the  stove,  called,  in  a  voice  that  they  both  knew,  "Mr. 
Welby!  Mrs.  Welby!" 

Next  moment  she  had  seated  herself  on  the  bench 
between  them  and  held  a  hand  of  each.  It  was 
Sarah. 

"Oh,  my  dear  old  friends,"  she  said  with  deep  affec- 
tion ;  "oh,  my  dear  kind  old  master  and  mistress,  oh, 
to  find  you  here — like  this!  Why  did  you  never  write 
to  me?  Why  did  you  never  let  me  know?  Why  did 
you  leave  it  to  chance — to  a  wonderful  chance  really 
— that  I  was  ever  able  to  find  you?" 

They  sat  silent,  dazed,  while  she  reproached  them. 

It  was  an  acquaintance  of  theirs — she  said — a  very 
old  acquaintance  of  theirs  who  had  given  her  the  clue, 
and  she  had  not  lost  a  moment. 

"Now  of  course  you  can  guess  what  I'm  going  to 
do,"  she  said,  just  as  she  used  to  speak  to  them  years 
ago,  firmly  yet  respectfully.  "I  am  going  to  take  you 
straight  home  with  me  to  Hillside,  yes,  I  am.  The 
cab  is  waiting  outside." 

"Sarah,  we  couldn't  so  trespass,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 

"No,  no.  Not  to  be  thought  of,"  mumbled  Mr. 
Welby.  "But — ah — sense  of  obligation  all  the  same. 


330  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Only — you  understand — prefer  to  stand  on  my  own 
legs";  and  he  broke  down. 

Sarah  made  strange  noises,  tried  to  laugh  and  only 
succeeded  in  crying.  Then  she  dashed  away  her  fool- 
ish tears,  struggled  with  herself,  and  finally  spoke  with 
sprightliness. 

"Yes,  I  understand,  sir.  I  was  prepared — for  I 
know  your  pride.  But  now  listen,  sir.  And  you, 
ma'am.  There's  no  obligation  contemplated  by  me. 
On  the  contrary.  You'll  be  doing  me  a  favour.  I 
needn't  explain — not  to-night — but  I've  had  an  upset 
with  my  servants,  and  am  fearfully  short-handed.  Oh, 
servants,  servants !"  And  Sarah  was  very  gay  in  tone. 
"Never  speak  to  me  of  servants.  The  more  of  'em  you 
have,  the  greater  your  trouble.  Well  then,  I  want 
dear  Mrs.  Welby —  If  you  don't  mind,  ma'am,  I  want 
you  to  help  me  out  of  my  fix  by  doing  a  bit  of  cooking 
in  the  kitchen." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mrs.  Welby  eagerly.  "I  should 
love  that,  Sarah." 

"You  see,  you  know  the  range,  ma'am;  7  always 
think  that's  half  the  battle.  And  I'm  sure  the  master 
will  be  good  enough  to  take  on  any  little  odd  jobs." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Welby.     "Anything,  Sarah." 

"Then  you  save  the  situation  for  me,  sir.  I  needn't 
say  we  can  find  room  for  Master  Jack.  Of  course. 
And  I  count  on  Miss  Amabel  to  help  me  in  the  office, 
typewriting.  I've  a  good  room  for  her.  Naturally, 
ma'am ;  for  we  want  to  make  her  comfortable — don't 
we? — till  all  her  little  trouble's  nicely  over." 

"Oh,  Sarah,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Welby. 

"As  to  the  young  ladies — how  are  they,  ma'am? — 
my  two  dears,  as  I  always  call  them!  Well,  we  can 


PEACE  AND  GOOD-WILL  331 

collect  Miss  Violet  and  Miss  Primrose  to-morrow,  can't 
we?" 

"Oh,  Sarah!" 

"That's  settled  then.  Now  don't  let's  linger.  Get 
your  hats  and  coats,  and  come  along." 


PAUT  FIVE 

THE    OLD   SONG 


MEANTIME  what  had  happened  to  Violet? 
Throughout  the  month  that  followed  Ar- 
mistice-day her  difficulties  increased;  twice 
she  had  been  compelled  to  change  her  lodgings,  being 
abruptly  requested  to  leave  because  her  room  was 
wanted  by  somebody  else;  moving  for  the  second  time, 
she  established  herself  at  a  miserable  building  in  which 
Gladys  shared  a  room  with  two  other  girls.  Violet, 
pleased  to  be  near  the  child,  felt  glad  enough  to  find 
this  refuge,  but  the  great  drawback  to  the  place  was 
that  Mrs.  Blood  also  lived  there  and  Mother  Rowse 
came  as  an  occasional  visitor. 

Although  the  demeanour  of  aunt  and  niece  had 
shown  less  hostility  since  the  defeat  of  the  elder  lady, 
Violet  knew  well  that  they  were  her  implacable  enemies. 
They  laid  secret  traps  for  her  at  the  pitch,  her  flowers 
withered  sometimes  in  a  swift  mysterious  way,  and  but 
for  the  countenance  and  favour  of  Rufus  she  felt  they 
would  make  life  intolerable  for  her.  Gladys  told  her 
that  she  was  right  in  her  judgment  of  the  situation. 
"They'd  do  you  in  if  they  dared,"  said  Gladys. 

During  the  second  week  of  December  little  Gladys 
fell  ill,  and  came  no  more  to  the  pitch.  She  lay  all 
day  on  a  mattress  spread  upon  the  floor,  and  of  an 
evening  Violet  used  to  sit  with  her  till  Katie  and  Maud, 
the  two  other  girls,  returned  from  their  street  wander- 
ings and  unrolled  their  own  mattresses.  A  doctor 

said  she  was  suffering  from  the  effects  of  a  chill,  and 

335 


336  A  LITTLE  MORE 

her  fever  and  cough  were  nothing  to  worry  about. 
She  would  be  better  in  a  hospital,  but  all  the  hospitals 
were  full.  Her  state  was  not  dangerous,  although  of 
course  there  would  be  the  gravest  danger  if  she  got 
up  and  went  out;  she  was  not,  however,  likely  to 
attempt  any  such  imprudence. 

Katie,  two  or  three  years  older  than  herself,  was 
kind  to  her;  and  Violet  did  everything  that  lay  in  her 
power.  The  affection  of  the  child  for  Violet  was 
pathetic  in  its  elemental  character.  For  her,  Violet 
the  ragged  and  forlorn  was  a  princess,  a  saintly  her- 
oine of  a  cinema  play,  everything  high,  noble,  and 
glorious.  In  these  evenings  when  they  were  alone  in 
the  room  she  made  Violet  tell  her  fairy  stories ;  and, 
while  she  held  Violet's  hand  and  listened,  it  seemed  to 
her  that  she  was  being  lifted  into  some  beautiful  happy 
world  that  till  now  she  had  only  seen  faintly  and  dimly 
in  dreams. 

"I  do  love  you,  Violet,"  she  said.  "I  don't  believe 
there  was  never  anybody  like  you.  Katie  and  Maud, 
they  see  it  just  the  same  as  I  do.  You'll  give  me  a 
peep  to-morrer  mornin'  as  you  go  out,  won't  you? 
And  you'll  be  here  again  in  the  evenin'?" 

Then  one  morning,  while  Violet  knelt  at  her  side  and 
the  other  girls  slept,  she  whispered  anxiously: 

"I  was  waitin'  for  yer.  I  ain't  closed  an  eye.  Violet, 
that  swine  Emmie  and  the  old  devil  are  plottin'  more 
mischief  against  you.  Mother  Rowse  was  in  the 
buildin'  last  night,  spreadin'  tales  about  you.  Katie 
heard  some  of  it,  and  told  me  so's  I  could  warn  you. 
You  beware,  Violet.  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  was  up  and 
about.  Then  I  could  keep  on  the  watch  for  you." 

That  evening  what  had  occurred  on  two  previous 


THE  OLD  SONG  337 

occasions  repeated  itself  again.  The  landlady  told 
Violet  that  she  wanted  her  room. 

"Yes,  I'll  trouble  you  for  your  key,  and  not  later 
than  to-morrow  night,  if  you  please." 

Protestations  and  entreaties  were  useless;  and  when 
Violet,  like  her  father,  spoke  of  the  law  of  the  land, 
the  woman  became  fierce. 

"I  ain't  afraid  of  the  p'lice.  Go  and  fetch  the  p'lice 
if  you  dare.  This  is  a  respectable  house.  Besides,  I 
give  you  no  explanations.  I  tell  you  to  clear  out." 

Violet  excused  herself  to  Gladys  and  spent  the  even- 
ing in  a  vain  hunt  for  another  room.  At  the  market 
next  morning  she  told  Rufus  of  her  trouble,  and  after 
a  long  silence  he  drew  her  aside  and  talked  to  her  in 
a  manner  that,  for  him,  was  strangely  loquacious. 

"Vi'let,  I  dunno.  This  p'raps  is  a  blessing  in  dis- 
guise. It's  something  I've  seen  coming,  and  I've  wres- 
tled against  it,  not  wanting  further  entanglements. 
But.  I  suppose  it  had  to  be,  and  I'm  ready  for  it." 

Then  he  told  her  she  could  come  to  live  with  his 
widowed  mother  and  himself  at  Rose-tree  Court,  where 
she  would  be  well  taken  care  of.  Rose-tree  Court  was 
not  only  a  charming  retreat  but  most  conveniently 
situated. 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Violet;  "but  would 
your  mother  consent  to  take  me  as  a  lodger  ?  Shouldn't 
I  be  in  the  way?" 

"Don't  you  bother,"  said  Rufus.  "Leave  it  all  to 
me." 

In  the  course  of  the  morning  Rufus  sent  her  home 
to  pack  her  few  belongings,  guarded  her  basket  while 
she  was  away  from  the  pitch,  and  then,  putting  her 
in  charge  of  his  own  basket,  went  to  fetch  her  box 


338  A  LITTLE  MORE 

and  carry  it  to  Rose-tree  Court.  He  had  told  her 
that  all  preparations  would  be  completed  there  by 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  at  which  hour  he  would 
call  for  her  and  personally  conduct  her  to  her  new 
abode. 

Mother  Rowse  and  Mrs.  Blood  did  not  display  either 
surprise  or  curiosity  because  of  these  early  comings 
and  goings;  nor  did  they  appear  to  notice  the  pro- 
fuse nods  and  winks  showered  upon  Violet  by  Rufus 
throughout  the  day.  They  asked  no  questions. 

At  eight  o'clock  Violet  stood  waiting  in  the  entry 
of  the  house  from  which  she  was  banished.  She  had 
made  more  excuses  to  Gladys,  but  had  told  her  noth- 
ing of  the  new  arrangements,  and  she  did  not  dare  go 
into  her  room  to  say  good-bye.  She  knew  that  the 
child  would  be  very  unhappy  when  she  learned  that 
they  were  no  longer  under  the  same  roof.  She  would 
tell  her  to-morrow. 

Punctual  to  his  appointment  her  escort  appeared; 
without  a  word  he  put  her  basket  on  his  shoulder, 
and  off  they  went.  The  night  was  dark  and  cold,  its 
discomfort  being  enhanced  by  a  drizzle  of  rain  that 
began  to  fall  after  they  had  crossed  the  Euston  Road. 

The  noise  of  the  traffic  dropped  behind  them;  they 
were  skirting  the  vague  chaos  of  a  goods  yard,  then 
they  plunged  through  darkness  under  railway  arches 
and  he  led  her  into  a  labyrinth  of  streets  even  more 
sordid  and  evil-looking  than  any  which  Violet  had  yet 
visited. 

"Come  on,"  he  said. 

Violet,  troubled  by  sudden  apprehensive  qualms,  had 
hesitated  and  slackened  her  pace.  Was  she  wise  in 


THE  OLD  SONG  339 

thus  blindly  trusting  Rufus?  He  had  always  been  so 
good  to  her;  he  could  not  now  mean  to  play  her  false? 

"Rufus,"  she  said  weakly,  "you  told  me  Rose-tree 
Court  was  near." 

"So  it  is,"  he  replied. 

"Rufus,  are  you  quite  sure  that  your  mother  is  ex- 
pecting me?" 

He  led  her  on  without  answering;  and  again  she  felt 
the  sensation  of  coldness  and  emptiness  that  comes 
when  one  begins  to  be  afraid.  She  thought  that  it 
had  been  wrong  and  foolish  to  give  her  box  into  his 
possession.  And  now  he  had  her  basket  too. 

Rufus  himself  was  walking  slowly;  he  looked  about 
him  mysteriously,  as  if  anxious  not  to  be  observed  by 
the  rare  passers-by.  Then  he  stopped. 

"Is — is  this  Rose-tree  Court?"  stammered  Violet. 

"Yus."  And  he  led  her  across  the  road  from  the 
lamp-post  where  they  had  paused. 

The  lamplight  had  shown  her  the  entrance  of  a 
paved  court,  horrible  little  sinister-looking  houses  with 
their  fronts  perhaps  fourteen  feet  apart,  and  beyond 
these  a  vault-like  blackness  in  which  one  could  merely 
guess  at  further  houses  and  the  end  of  the  cul-de-sac. 

"Now  you  stand  'ere  agin  the  wall,"  said  Rufus, 
pushing  her  to  the  desired  spot.  "Wait  'ere,  out  of 
the  light,  where  you  won't  be  seen.  Understand?  I 
don't  wish  the  neighbours  to  twig  us  goin'  in.  I  don't 
want  any  fuss  of  any  sort.  I'm  goin'  to  see  the  coast's 
clear.  Then  I'll  come  back  and  fetch  yer." 

"But  your  mother,"  Violet  began ;  "doesn't  she " 

"Look  'ere,"  said  Rufus.  "The  old  widow  woman 
inside  isn't  my  mother.  I  ain't  got  a  mother.  No, 
but  I'm  goin'  to  be  mother  and  father  to  you,  lass. 


340  A  LITTLE  MORE 

'Enceforth  I'm  goin'  to  take  care  o*  you  meself,  Vi'let. 
See?  Don't  you  worry.  You're  all  right.  Now  keep 
quiet  'ere  arf  a  minute." 

And,  nodding  amiably,  he  disappeared  with  the 
basket. 

For  a  few  moments  Violet's  nerves  failed  her  utterly. 
She  leaned  against  the  wall;  her  teeth  chattered,  her 
legs  were  giving  way;  fear,  blood-curdling,  bone-shak- 
ing fear  had  made  her  its  helpless  prey.  Strength, 
thought,  reason  seemed  to  have  gone  from  her.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  snared,  caught;  she  stood 
there  trembling  from  head  to  feet,  turning  her  eyes 
from  side  to  side,  spell-bound  by  terror. 

Then  the  nightmare  spell  broke  and  she  uttered  a 
cry.  Something  or  somebody  had  crept  invisible  along 
the  wall  and  grasped  her  hand. 

"  'Ush.  Don't  speak.  On'y  whisper.  It's  me — 
Glad-eyes." 

Violet  clung  to  the  child  wildly. 

"I've  come  to  warn  you.  Katie  got  wind  of  it.  I 
bin  watchin'.  Violet,  you  mustn't  go  with  'im.  .  .  . 
That's  a  bad  place.  There's  wicked  people  in  there." 

"I  know,  I  know,"  said  Violet  in  a  frenzied  whisper. 

"Come  away.     Quick." 

Then,  at  this  moment,  an  uproar  arose  somewhere  in 
the  lower  darkness  of  Rose-tree  Court.  The  voice  of 
Rufus  was  raised  in  wrath,  and  women's  voices  mingled 
with  it.  People,  it  seemed,  had  been  waiting  for  Rufus 
down  there;  his  friends  Mother  Rowse  and  Mrs.  Blood 
had  assembled  the  neighbours  to  give  him  a  welcoming 
reception. 

"Cheese  it,"  he  bellowed.  "You  let  me  and  mine 
alone." 


THE  OLD  SONG  341 

"Ho-ho,"  shouted  Mrs.  Blood.  "This  is  a  good'un, 
aunt.  He's  brought  'is  fine  lady  'ome  to  roost  at  last, 
and  now  he  wants  to  'ide  her  from  the  populace." 

"Where  is  the  trollop?"  screamed  Mother  Rowse; 
and  all  came  surging  up  the  court. 

The  two  girls  did  not  wait  for  them.  Gladys  had 
pulled  Violet  along  the  wall,  and  they  dived  round  its 
corner  into  another  street.  Gladys  leading,  still  hold- 
ing Violet's  hand,  they  ran  up  this  street,  down  that, 
under  arches,  through  the  alleys  and  by-ways  of  the 
intricate  labyrinth,  until,  breathless  and  panting,  they 
reached  the  lamplight  of  a  main  thoroughfare. 

"You're  safe  now,"  gasped  Gladys.  "You  must  go 
on  by  yourself.  I  can't  do  no  more."  She  had  re- 
leased her  grip  of  Violet,  and  she  stood  with  both  her 
hands  pressed  against  her  chest,  coughing,  almost 
choking. 

"Gladys,  oh,  Gladys You  to  come  out  like 

this,  in  the  rain  too.  You're  wet  through.  Oh,  it 
will  kill  you." 

"Not  much,"  coughed  Gladys.  "But  they'U  kill  me, 
among  'em,  if  they  find  I  tried  to  interfere.  Go  on 
now,  Violet.  Get  further  away,  while  you  can.  I'll 
go  back  to  bed  and  into  the  warm  again." 

Violet  went  on  alone.  The  rain  fell  faster;  she  was 
splashed  with  mud  from  passing  wheels ;  her  hair,  all 
plastered  to  her  face  and  neck,  shed  rivulets. 

In  one  of  the  squares  near  the  Marble  Arch  she  sat 
on  a  door-step  under  a  porch,  and  slowly  collected  her 
thoughts.  Rufus  and  those  women  were  a  couple  of 
miles  away  now;  cold  blank  misery  took  the  place  of 
her  recent  fear,  and  she  began  to  cry. 

It  was  the  end  of  the  world  for  her.     Her  career  as 


342  A  LITTLE  MORE 

a  flower-girl  was  shattered,  she  had  abandoned  her  box 
and  her  basket,  she  was  done  for.  She  felt  that,  in  the 
language  of  the  ring,  she  was  down  and  out.  She  sat 
with  her  head  on  her  knees  and  wept. 

The  rain  ceased;  she  sat  up  shivering,  and  she 
thought  now  of  the  only  person  in  the  whole  world  to 
whom  she  could  turn  for  aid  with  any  hope  of  getting 
it.  He  was  in  London.  Yet  she  had  told  her  mother 
that  she  would  die  of  shame  rather  than  accept  help 
from  him.  But  there  was  no  one  else. 

High  above  her  head  the  tower  clock  was  striking 
eleven  as  she  passed  the  church  walls  and  came  to  the 
railings  of  the  vicarage.  She  saw  with  satisfaction 
that  there  were  lights  in  that  well-remembered  upper 
room  where  the  curates  and  the  vicar  used  to  sit  to- 
gether, and  light  too  showed  through  the  painted  glass 
above  the  front  door;  but  no  one  came  to  answer  her 
timid  ringing  of  the  bell.  She  rang  again.  Then  at 
last  she  heard  the  chain  being  taken  down  and  bolts 
withdrawn. 

The  door  was  opened  by  the  very  same  housekeeper 
who  had  been  there  years  ago.  Violet  had  forgotten 
her  name. 

"And  what  may  you  want  with  Mr.  Carillon?"  said 
the  housekeeper  in  reply  to  Violet's  request. 

"He  is  still  curate  here,  isn't  he?"  asked  Violet, 
breathlessly. 

"No,  he  isn't,"  said  the  woman. 

"Oh,  dear." 

"He  is  vicar,"  said  the  woman,  with  pride.  "But  if, 
as  you  say,  you're  in  trouble,  I  suppose  I  must  take 


THE  OLD  SONG  34?3 

you  up — for  trouble  is  always  the  pass-word  in  this 
house." 

She  led  Violet  upstairs,  opened  the  study  door,  and 
announced  her  as  "a  young  woman  in  distress,  sir." 

Violet  stood  on  the  threshold,  taking  in  at  a  single 
glance  the  unchanged  aspect  of  a  dozen  familiar  ob- 
jects, the  ecclesiastical  chairs,  the  dwarf  book-cases, 
the  biblical  prints  in  their  black  frames ;  cheerful  with 
lamp-light,  warmed  by  a  good  coal  fire,  curtained  and 
secure,  this  room,  which  she  had  once  thought  hideous, 
now  seemed  to  her  quite  beautiful.  But  the  man  she 
had  expected  to  see  was  not  in  the  room. 

Its  only  occupant  was  an  officer  in  uniform  seated 
at  one  of  the  writing-tables. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  Violet,  painfully  disconcerted. 
"I  thought " 

The  officer  had  sprung  to  his  feet.  He  stood  look- 
ing at  her,  then  came  briskly  forward.  He  was  a 
dark,  splendid  sort  of  man,  strong,  firm,  and  very 
handsome;  the  face  sunburnt,  hard-set,  the  eyes  full  of 
authority. 

"Miss  Welbyl     Can  it  be  possible?" 

Violet  dropped  her  own  eyes,  and  stood  before  him, 
pitiable,  draggled,  trembling;  for,  although  so  incred- 
ibly different,  he  was  indeed  Mr.  Carillon. 

"My  dear  child,  what  has  brought  you  here — and 
in  such  a  state?" 

"I  was  in  desperate  trouble,"  said  Violet  faintly. 
"I  found  myself  all  at  once — homeless;  and  I  thought 

— I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  give  me "  And  she 

faltered  and  her  voice  failed. 

"Say    no    more,"    said    Mr.    Carillon,    with    breezy 


344  A  LITTLE  MORE 

authoritativeness ;  and  he  had  an  encouraging  laugh. 
"Obviously,  what  you  «want  me  to  give  you  first  of  all 
is  a  hot  bath.  Yes,  yes.  You  shall  tell  me  the  rest  of 
the  tale  to-morrow."  While  he  spoke  he  had  reopened 
the  study  door,  and  now  he  shouted  down  the  stairs: 
"Mrs.  Rudd.  Here.  Look  sharp." 

"Now,  Mrs.  Rudd,"  he  said,  when  the  housekeeper 
appeared.  "Make  up  your  fire  again." 

"Make  up  the  fire  again?" 

"Yes,  get  the  bath  water  heated  as  soon  as  possible. 
This  young  lady  requires  a  bath.  She  will  also  require 
some  sort  of  supper." 

"Supper?"  echoed  Mrs.  Rudd. 

"Supper!"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  so  loudly  and  crisply 
that  the  word  sounded  like  a  pistol  shot  in  the  still 
room,  and  Violet  saw  the  housekeeper  wince  nerv- 
ously. 

"She  will  also  require  a  complete  change  of  clothing. 
Provide  that,  please,  by  the  morning.  Give  her  one  of 
your  nightdresses  now.  Get  clean  sheets  and  make  up 
the  bed  in  my  room.  Get  a  mattress  and  make  me  a 
shake-down  on  the  floor  here." 

"Mr.  Carillon,"  said  Violet,  "I  cannot — I  really 
cannot  allow  you  to  give  up  your  room  to  me.  Please 
don't " 

Then  she  faltered  again  and  stopped  speaking. 
Without  looking  at  her,  Mr.  Carillon  had  held  up  his 
hand,  and  this  gesture,  as  plainly  as  the  most  direct 
command,  had  said:  "Hold  your  tongue." 

He  went  on  talking  to  the  housekeeper.  "You  will 
attend  to  her  comforts  in  there — you  know  what  I 
mean,  brushes,  combs,  and  so  forth;  and  bring  me  out 


THE  OLD  SONG-  345 

my  odds  and  ends — my  shaving-tackle — don't  forget 
that." 

"Why,"  asked  Mrs.  Rudd,  "shouldn't  the  young 
lady  sleep  on  the  sofa  downstairs?" 

"Why?  Because  I  say  so."  Mr.  Carillon  uttered 
these  words  very  quietly,  but  the  force  and  finality  in 
them  seemed  more  tremendous  than  if  he  had  roared. 
"And  also,  Mrs.  Rudd,  because  the  young  lady  is  very 
tired,  grievously  in  need  of  rest,  and  therefore  requires 
the  best  bed  in  the  house,  which  happens  to  be  mine. 
Now  set  about  it,  please";  and  with  another  gesture 
ke  indicated  to  Violet  that  the  interview  was  at  an  end. 

Mrs.  Rudd  led  her  away.  All  her  misery  and  sense 
of  shame  had  been  obliterated  by  her  wonder.  Watch- 
ing his  face,  listening  to  the  tones  of  his  voice,  she  had 
thrilled  to  her  inmost  depths  with  the  wonder  of  it. 
It  was  a  dream  surely. 

An  hour  later  she  was  in  bed,  in  the  room  of  which 
she  had  once  caught  a  glimpse  when  talking  to  the 
vicar's  sister  on  the  landing — the  room  of  the  vicar. 
She  was  glowing  with  sensations  of  cleanness  and  com- 
fort derived  from  the  bath;  she  stretched  her  weary 
limbs  in  the  delicious  soft  bed;  cares,  pains,  and  aches 
had  gone  from  her  as  if  for  ever.  She  was  in  a  kind 
of  dozing  ecstasy  when  Mrs.  Rudd  brought  the  supper 
tray. 

"Here  you  are,  miss — a  nice  basin  of  good  broth  and 
plenty  of  toast." 

Violet  sat  up,  swept  back  the  masses  of  dark  hair 
from  her  shoulders,  and  Mrs.  Rudd  thought  that,  now 
one  could  see  her  properly,  she  was  a  very  handsome 
young  woman. 

Mrs.  Rudd  lingered,  talking. 


346  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"He  says  you're  to  have  your  sleep  out.  I'm  to 
bring  you  your  breakfast  in  bed.  Then  he'll  have  a 
chat  with  you  about  noon." 

"How  good  he  is,"  said  Violet. 

"Good!  I  should  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Rudd,  and 
she  gave  a  lengthy  tribute  to  his  goodness.  "The 
whole  parish  adores  him." 

"Why  is  he  still  in  uniform,  Mrs.  Rudd?" 

"Because  he's  still  acting  as  chaplain  to  the  forces, 
as  well  as  doing  all  the  parish  work." 

"Mrs.  Rudd,"  said  Violet  presently,  as  she  drank 
her  soup,  "isn't  he  very  much  altered  from  what  he 
used  to  be?  Don't  you  see  a  great  difference?" 

"How  do  you  mean,  miss?  I  don't  know  that  I  ever 
took  any  notice  of  him  before  the  war.  Of  course  he's 
very  different  from  the  late  vicar,  who  was  nothing 
but  softness  and  politeness :  'I  should  be  obliged,  Mrs. 
Rudd,'  and  'If  I'm  not  putting  you  out,  Mrs.  Rudd.' 
With  Mr.  Carillon  it's,  'Now  then.  Look  alive,  Mrs. 
Rudd,'  or  if  you  seem  to  hesitate,  'Jump  to  it,  Mrs. 
Rudd.'  And  you've  got  to  jump  to  it  too,"  and  Mrs. 
Rudd  laughed,  as  if  even  at  her  age  she  enjoyed  this 
violent  exercise.  "With  him,  miss,  orders  are  orders." 

"Yes,  that's  exactly  what  I  was  meaning,"  said 
Violet. 

"It's  the  army  way,  miss,  what  he's  learnt  out  there. 
I  don't  mind  it.  I  like  a  man — and  Mr.  Carillon's  all 
that.  Compared  with  him,  the  late  vicar  was  nothing 
but  a  sheep — though  it  sounds  unkind  to  say  so,  for 
he  did  mean  so  well." 

Violet  had  finished  her  soup,  and  although  sleepy 
she  encouraged  Mrs.  Rudd  to  go  on  chatting. 

"And  it's  only  just  his  way  of  speaking,  miss.     Be- 


THE  OLD  SONG  347 

neath  it,  in  his  heart,  he's  every  bit  as  gentle  as  ever 
the  late  vicar  was.  Besides,  when  you  aren't  always 
being  carneyed  and  smiled  at,  a  friendly  word  and  a 
merry  laugh  comes  to  you  with  all  the  more  pleasure. 
As  to  his  real  kindness,  in  everything  that  matters — 
if  you  understand  me,  miss — well,  his  kindness  sur- 
passes any  words  to  describe  it.  It's  do  with  him,  not 
mere  talk.  But  you've  had  an  example  of  that  to- 
night, haven't  you?  See  how  he  received  you — giving 
up  his  very  bed,  and Oh,  lor!" 

Mr.  Carillon  was  slapping  loudy  on  the  wooden 
panels  of  the  bedroom  door.  He  opened  the  door  a 
couple  of  inches  and  spoke  severely. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Rudd,  that's  enough  cackle.  Turn  out 
the  light  and  let  Miss  Welby  go  to  sleep.  I  have  al- 
ready told  you  she  needs  rest." 

"Yes,  sir.     I'm  coming,  sir.     I'm  coming." 

Without  another  word  to  Violet  Mrs.  Rudd  plunged 
the  room  in  darkness  and  hurried  from  it. 

Next  morning  Mr.  Carillon  and  Violet  had  a  quiet 
talk  together,  and  again  she  was  filled  with  wonder, 
for  once  again  he  seemed  different  from  what  she  had 
anticipated.  That  sternness  or  authoritativeness  had 
vanished.  He  was  still  strong  and  firm,  but  more  ser- 
ious in  manner,  and  once  or  twice,  when  he  gravely 
smiled  at  her,  she  fancied  that  she  could  detect  a  great 
tenderness  in  the  expression  of  his  eyes.  He  was  sorry 
for  her.  She  understood  that  last  night  he  was  the 
man  of  action,  promptly  doing  all  that  appeared 
necessary  at  the  moment,  doing  it  in  the  army  way; 
now  he  was  the  man  of  thought,  carefully  considering 
the  secondary  aspects  of  her  case. 


348  A  LITTLE  MORE 

She  felt  too,  with  a  queer  little  pang,  that  the  ten- 
derness, if  truly  it  existed,  was  caused  by  the  broadest 
and  most  universal  emotion.  Not  for  her  the  individ- 
ual, but  for  her  the  type  of  wide-spread  suffering,  did 
he  feel  sorrow  and  regret.  Naturally  he  had  long  ago 
ceased  to  care  for  her  herself.  Probably  he  had  for- 
gotten that  he  ever  cared. 

The  realization  of  this  fact  should  perhaps  have 
made  her  -more  comfortable,  more  at  her  ease ;  but  it 
did  not.  She  found  difficulty  in  meeting  his  attentive 
eyes.  She  was  painfully  embarrassed,  shifting  her 
attitude  on  the  pewlike  chair,  pulling  at  the  folds  of 
her  improvised  costume,  feeling  awkward  as  well  as 
stupid,  knowing  also  that  her  whole  appearance  was 
ridiculous  in  these  borrowed  housekeeper  garments ;  for 
Mrs.  Rudd  was  both  much  shorter  and  much  bigger 
round  than  she. 

Mr.  Carillon  made  her  slowly  tell  him  the  whole  tale 
of  her  downfall,  as  well  as  that  of  the  other  members 
of  the  family.  He  asked  many  questions,  and  jotted 
down  various  facts  in  his  note-book. 

It  was  only  when  Violet  came  to  speak  of  the  poor 
little  flower-girl  that  she  recovered  any  self-possession. 
Then,  forgetting  herself,  she  spoke  quite  eloquently. 
She  told  him  of  the  little  girl's  illness,  her  devotion, 
her  reckless  heroism  in  leaving  her  sick  bed  and  coming 
through  the  rain  to  give  timely  warning.  She  said 
that  she  could  not  possibly  desert  Gladys;  she  must 
at  all  costs  return ;  she  must  assure  herself  that  Gladys 
had  not  sacrificed  her  life  or  been  molested  by  Mother 
Rowse. 

"It  is  dreadful  to  ask  you  so  much,"  she  said;  "but 
I  must  go  back  alone,  if  you  can't  be  good  enough  to 


THE  OLD  SONG  349 

go  with  me.  Oh,  if  only  you  will  help  me  in  this — 
to  get  Gladys  away  from  those  dreadful  people — to 
place  her  in  safe  hands " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Carillon.  "I'll  see  to  that.  I 
promise  you,  Gladys  shall  be  attended  to." 

"Oh,  how  good  you  are.     You'll  take  me  there  soon  ?" 

"No,  I'll  go  by  myself.  Your  presence  won't  be  nec- 
essary. Now  please  don't  cry.  My  poor  child,  I 
quite  understand  your  feelings.  But  please  dry  your 
eyes,  and  just  give  me  some  particulars." 

And  at  Violet's  dictation  he  made  some  more  jot- 
tings. Then  he  shut  the  book  and  smiled  at  her  very 
kindly,  but  just  as  a  grown-up  person  smiles  at  a 
child. 

"So  much  for  your  young  friend  Gladys.  But  now 
the  question  is:  What  am  I  going  to  do  with  you?" 

"If  you  could  find  me  any  sort  of  decent  employ- 
ment." 

"Yes,  that's  easily  said.  I'll  do  my  best.  In  fact, 
I  have  already  been  looking  round  for  something,  and 
I'm  hopeful  of  success.  I  will  let  you  know  about  it 
by  tea-time  this  afternoon." 

"I  can  never  thank  you,"  said  Violet  in  a  very  low 
voice,  and  she  stood  up,  shaking  out  the  folds  of  her 
short  but  voluminous  skirt. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  looking  at  her,  and  smiling 
again,  "you  and  our  good  Rudd  are  not  exactly  the 
same  figure.  She  shall  take  you  to  the  Bon  Marche 
and  get  you  some  clothes  that  fit — whatever  may  be 
necessary.  Only  we'll  wait  before  doing  that  until  we 
know  just  the  sort  of  clothes  that  it  will  be  advisable 
to  buy." 

Violet  flushed,  grew  pale,  and  murmured  feeble  pro- 


350  A  LITTLE  MORE 

testations  of  gratitude,  in  reply  to  which  he  made  one 
of  his  commanding  gestures.  But  then,  in  spite  of  the 
gesture,  an  impulse  that  she  could  not  control  compelled 
her  to  speak  of  the  past. 

Beneath  the  bronze  of  his  complexion  she  saw  a  swift 
deepening  of  colour.  "Is  it  worth  while  going  back  to 
all  that?"  he  asked  her. 

"No.  Only  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  think  since 
then — I  think  I  have  changed  for  the  better." 

"Well,"  he  said  very  quietly,  "you  could  scarcely 
change  for  the  worse,  could  you?" 

"You  are  right  to  be  severe  with  me,"  said  Violet 
meekly,  and  she  hung  her  head  and  looked  at  the  car- 
pet. 

"Indeed,  I  did  not  mean  to  be  severe,"  he  said 
hurriedly.  "I  only  meant,  please  dismiss  all  that  from 
your  mind.  Of  course  I  do  not  blame  you,  and  I  should 
hate  it  if  you  thought  for  a  moment  I  was  mean  enough 
to  bear  malice." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Violet  in  a  whisper. 

He  did  not  speak  again,  and  when  she  ventured  to 
look  up  he.  had  gone  to  his  writing-table.  This  second 
interview  was  ended.  She  crept  from  the  room  with 
downcast  eyes. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  she  saw  him  again,  he 
announced  very  cheerfully  that  he  had  found  her  a 
situation  as  second  housemaid. 

"So  we  know  now  the  things  to  buy,"  he  said  gaily. 
"Print  dress,  black  dress,  caps  and  aprons." 

Violet  had  inwardly  recoiled,  and  she  was  shivering. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked,  with  a  sharp  change 
of  tone.  "Aren't  you  pleased?  Isn't  it  good  enough 


THE  OLD  SONG  351 

for  you?  You're  not  too  proud  to  be  a  housemaid,  I 
suppose?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Violet.  "I  am  very  pleased.  Thank 
you  very  much." 

What  else  could  she  say?  Yet  a  hundred  times  she 
had  vowed  that  she  would  sooner  starve  than  enter 
domestic  service;  her  sister  too  had  promised  her  that 
no  one  should  ever  force  her  to  wear  a  cap  and  apron ; 
and  even  now,  after  going  through  so  much,  all  that 
remained  to  her  of  pride  was  lacerated  by  this  cruel 
necessity. 

"It — the  situation,"  she  said  faintly,  "it's  not  of 
course  anywhere  in  this  neighbourhood?" 

"Oh,  yes  it  is,"  he  said  cheerily.  "Close  to  your  old 
home.  The  Cedars — Mrs.  and  Miss  Castlemayne." 

Again  Violet  felt  an  invincible  recoil,  a  weak  shrink- 
ing of  the  spirit.  Of  all  houses  in  the  universe  The 
Cedars  was  that  in  which  she  would  suffer  most  from 
her  humiliation.  In  the  old  days,  these  Castlemaynes 
had  always  been  the  grand  people  of  the  place,  whose 
civilities  were  tinged  with  a  flavour  of  patronage;  and 
although  the  Welbys  innocently  mocked  at  them,  they 
were  a  little  overawed  by  them. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  "you  have  no  objections 
to  the  Castlemaynes,  have  you?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Violet. 

"That's  right  then."  And  he  told  her  how  greatly 
his  friendship  with  these  people  had  developed — with 
the  daughter  especially.  "Miss  Castlemayne,"  he  said, 
"did  splendid  work  all  through  the  war.  She  is  not 
only  capable  and  efficient,  she  has  the  rare  additional 
virtue  of  being  extraordinarily  painstaking.  In  the 
parish  she  is  becoming  simply  my  right  hand."  Then 


352  A  LITTLE  MORE 

he  wound  up  by  saying  that  it  would  be  convenient  if 
Violet  could  get  her  outfit  at  once  and  remove  to  The 
Cedars  that  same  evening. 

Accordingly,  after  a  late  supper  with  Mrs.  Rudd, 
Violet  found  herself  driving  in  a  cab  up  the  old  road 
past  the  brilliantly  lit  windows  of  what  had  been  her 
childhood's  home,  and  round  a  corner  through  the 
gates  of  The  Cedars.  The  cabman  carried  her  new  tin 
box  up  the  steps,  took  his  fare,  and  left  her. 

She  was  received  by  Miss  Castlemayne  in  the  front 
drawing-room,  the  room  where  Violet  and  Mrs.  Welby 
used  to  sit  for  a  strained  and  uncomfortable  ten  minutes 
when  paying  The  Cedars  a  call  of  ceremony. 

"Miss  Welby,"  she  said  very  kindly,  but  in  the  old 
drawling  voice,  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  again  and  so 
sorry  at  the  same  time — well,  for  the  reasons  that  make 
you  willing  to  come  in  this  way.  The  vicar  has  told 
me,  you  know,"  and  she  displayed  one  of  her  lack- 
adaisical smiles. 

Violet  noticed  that  she  still  blinked  her  eyes  in  the 
old  silly  style,  and  that  she  still  had,  as  Mr.  Welby 
once  described  it,  the  manner  of  "a  dying  duck  in  a 
thunderstorm."  Nevertheless  no  one  could  deny  that 
she  was  a  well-bred,  elegant,  charmingly  dressed  girl, 
and,  for  anyone  who  was  aware  of  her  sterling  good 
qualities  and  could  put  up  with  her  affectation,  she 
might  prove  both  attractive  and  fascinating. 

"Thank  you  for  letting  me  come,"  said  Violet,  with 
an  effort. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Castlemayne  languidly. 
"How  could  I  ignore  such  recommendations?"  and  she 
blinked  her  eyes  and  smiled.  "In  any  event,  the  vicar's 
word  is  law  with  me." 


THE  OLD  SONG  353 

Violet  remained  silent. 

"And  now  tell  me  which  of  the  two  Miss  Welbys  are 
you?  I  remember  your  names  perfectly — but  are  you 
Primrose  or  Violet?" 

"I  am  Violet." 

"Yes.  Such  a  pretty  name.  But  so  is  Primrose 
too."  And  then  Miss  Castlemayne  with  a  good  deal  of 
tact  explained  that  she  and  her  mother  would  have  liked 
to  show  their  sense  of  absolute  equality  between  them- 
selves and  the  newcomer  by  treating  her  as  what  is 
termed  a  lady-help,  calling  her  Miss  Welby,  and  some- 
times asking  her  to  sit  with  them  at  meals ;  but  after 
discussion  they  had  decided  that  this  would  be  imposs- 
ible. The  other  servants  would  be  up  in  arms,  the 
whole  household  would  be  upset.  "So  I  fear  it  must  be 
Violet,  tout  court.  Will  you  mind?" 

"No,  I  shall  prefer  it,"  said  Violet. 

"Then,  er,  Violet,  I'll  introduce  you  to  your,  er, 
companions." 

She  led  Violet  into  the  hall,  past  the  marble  table 
on  which  they  used  to  leave  Mr.  Welby's  card  at  the 
conclusion  of  one  of  those  dreadful  afternoon  visits, 
and  onward  to  the  top  of  the  staircase  that  led  down 
to  the  kitchen  and  other  domestic  offices. 

"Edith,"  called  Miss  Castlemayne. 

"It's  Edith's  evening  out,  miss,"  said  a  voice  from  the 
lower  regions. 

"Oh.  Is  that  you,  Daphne?"  and  Miss  Castlemayne 
whispered:  "Daphne  is  the  cook."  Then  she  raised 
her  voice  to  its  usual  languid  drawling  tone.  "Daphne, 
this  is  Violet,  the  new  housemaid.  Will  you  please  take 
care  of  her." 

With  a  swelling  heart  Violet  went  down  the  kitchen 


354  A  LITTLE  MORE 

stairs.     She  felt  that  it  was  the  worst,  the  cruellest 
thing  that  she  had  yet  been  obliged  to  do. 

At  this  same  time  Mr.  Carillon,  after  many  hours  of 
active  endeavour,  was  sitting  beside  a  bed  in  one  of  the 
large  comfortable  wards  of  a  west-end  hospital.  The 
white-faced  little  patient  who  lay  in  the  bed  was  holding 
his  hand  and  squeezing  his  fingers  while  she  talked  to 
him. 

"Sure  you  don't  mind  what  I'm  doin'?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course  I  don't  mind,  Gladys.  I  like  it.  I  want 
you  to  feel  just  what  I  told  you — that  you  have  got  a 
real  friend  at  last." 

"It's  what  I've  always  done  with  Violet."  And  then 
Gladys  said  something  that  moved  Mr.  Carillon  deeply, 
because  he  thought  it  contained  such  infinite  pathos. 
"Oh,  she  was  so  kind  to  me,  Violet  was.  But  it  don't 
do  to  have  too  much  kindness  in  this  world;  it  on'y 
makes  you  soft  and  unhappy  when  it's  taken  away  from 
you." 

"But  it's  not  going  to  be  taken  away  from  you, 
Gladys.  No,  as  soon  as  you  are  well  again,  everything 
will  be  jolly  and  nice  for  you — quite  quite  different 
from  what  you're  accustomed  to.  Now  you  mustn't 
tire  yourself  with  talking." 

"I  ain't  tired  of  talking." 

And  certainly  Mr.  Carillon  was  not  tired  of  listen- 
ing. "Well,  only  a  little  more,"  he  said  gently,  "and 
then  you  must  settle  down  for  the  night,  or  nurse  will 
be  angry  with  me." 

Already  he  had  heard  the  other  side  of  the  tale. 
Gladys  had  told  him  of  the  endurance,  the  indomitable 
pluck,  the  heroism  of  Violet.  Now  she  gave  him  little 


THE  OLD  SONG  355 

intimate  pictures — Violet  sharing  her  dinner  at  the 
pitch,  pretending  that  she  was  not  herself  hungry  so  as 
to  persuade  Gladys  to  eat ;  Violet  lying  on  the  floor  and 
whispering  those  lovely  fairy  tales  till  Gladys  fell 
asleep ;  Violet  kneeling  long  "before  dawn,  stooping,  and 
kissing  Gladys  before  she  went  to  the  market;  Violet 
acting  as  the  guardian  angel  of  this  poor  little  waif. 

Mr.  Carillon  as  he  walked  away  from  the  hospital 
seemed  to  forget  his  military  training;  he  moved 
slowly  and  carried  himself  almost  slouchingly ;  he  was 
deep  in  thought.  He  thought  of  Violet,  the  superb  but 
worldly  girl,  working  out  her  spiritual  redemption  in 
hardship  and  pain,  rising  higher  the  more  bitterly  she 
was  tested,  reaching  at  last  to  heights  of  unselfishness 
and  nobility  that  all  must  admire.  Thinking  of  Violet 
in  this  manner  he  yearned  over  Violet. 

Then  he  pulled  himself  together,  thinking,  "Am  I  as 
big  a  fool  as  ever?"  And  he  sighed.  "Can  five  years, 
nearly  six  years,  be  thus  obliterated  in  twenty-four 
hours?  Just  because  I  get  another  proof  of  what  I 
always  knew,  that  human  nature  is  fine,  that  in  all 
people  there  are  latent  qualities  of  strength  that  they 
never  guess  at  till  they  draw  upon  them,  am  I  to  grow 
softly  sentimental  about  it — am  I  to  allow  myself 
straightaway  to  become  again  as  insanely  fond  of  her 
as  I  used  to  be?" 

Mr.  Carillon  determined  not  to  be  hasty.  Once  bit, 
twice  shy.  He  determined,  in  the  army  phrase,  to  put 
Violet  through  it. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  about  a  month 
after  Christmas,  and  all  work  in  the  coffee-rooms 
at  Hillside  would  have  finished  but  for  the  lateness 
of  one  of  its  guests,  a  difficult  and  fretful  young  man. 
He  sat  alone  at  a  table  that  had  been  hastily  relaid  for 
him,  drumming  impatiently  on  the  table  cloth. 

"Is  that  soup  ever  coming?" 

"Coining  now,  sir,"  said  a  voice  outside  the  open 
door.  "Mr.  Jarndice's  soup?" 

This  was  the  old  dining-room  of  the  family;  and 
except  for  the  new  lighting  arrangements,  the  small 
tables,  and  the  two  highly  coloured  staring  oleograph 
portraits  of  the  King  and  Queen  that  had  taken  the 
place  of  the  photographs  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Welby,  the 
appearance  of  the  room  had  not  very  greatly  changed. 

Mr.  Welby  himself  now  entered  the  room.  Looking 
large  and  important  in  his  second-hand  suit  of  dress 
clothes,  he  brought  the  tray  with  a  small  plated  tureen 
and  a  toast  rack.  He  put  the  tureen  before  the  guest, 
uncovered  it  with  a  sedate  flourish,  and  withdrew  to 
the  sideboard. 

Two  callow  youths,  also  in  dress  clothes,  showed 
themselves  and  Mr.  Welby  whispered  to  them ;  a  portly 
parlourmaid  came  through"  from  the  other  coffee-room 
— the  old  drawing-room — and  Mr.  Welby  made  signs 
to  her;  a  lump  of  cinder  fell  from  the  grate  and  Mr. 
Welby  picked  it  up  with  his  fingers,  so  as  not  to  make 
any  noise,  then  wiped  his  fingers  on  a  cloth.  Doing 

356 


THE  OLD  SONG  357 

all  this  Mr.  Welby  was  extremely  professional;  and  to 
anyone  who  had  ever  visited  him  at  Knightsbridge,  it 
would  have  been  obvious  that  he  founded  himself  on 
his  own  butler,  Timesman,  and  in  the  minutest  points 
was  imitating  the  admired  manner  of  that  paragon. 

"Soup's  cold." 

"Indeed,  sir?  Shall  I  send  it  down  and  have  it 
warmed?" 

"No,  let's  have  the  fish." 

Mr.  Welby  spoke  into  a  tube  near  the  fire-place,  and 
then  took  away  the  tureen  and  soup  plate.  What 
were  his  feelings  as  he  moved  to  and  fro,  performing 
these  menial  tasks  in  the  room  where  he  had  once  sat 
as  lord  and  master?  At  the  moment  they  were  merely 
irritation,  because  of  the  young  man.  The  young  man 
complained  of  everything;  nothing  satisfied  him. 

"If  the  fish  is  cold  I  shall  go  and  speak  to  Miss 
Brown.  Where  is  Miss  Brown?" 

"In  the  office,  sir." 

The  young  man  laughed.  "Yes,  racking  her  brain 
to  see  how  she  can  stick  a  bit  more  on  the  bills.  The 
worse  she  feeds  us  the  bigger  profit  she  rolls  up  for 
herself,  of  course.  She  must  be  pretty  near  a  million- 
aire, I  should  think." 

"No,  sir.  Hotel-keeping,  sir,  is  not  what  it  seems. 
The  expenses  are  so  terrific.  You  may  believe  me,  sir, 
Miss  Brown  would  be  ready  to  dispose  of  the  entire 
business,  if  she  could  get  anyone  to  take  it  off  her 
hands."  While  he  spoke  Mr.  Welby  made  a  faint 
clatter  with  the  two  little  plated  dishes  that  he  was 
putting  on  the  table.  "If  she  could  see  her  money 
back  again,  sir." 


358  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"Oh,  yes,  they  all  say  that.  I'll  tell  you  what  Miss 
Brown  is.  She's  a  pincher." 

"Oh,  no,  sir.  I've  known  Miss  Brown  for  quite  a 
number  of  years,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  pinching  is 
alien  to  her  character." 

"She  made  me  pay  a  deposit  on  arrival.  Half  a 
week's  pension!" 

"That,  I  think,  sir,  is  usual  nowadays — on  a  first 
visit." 

"I  shall  ask  for  it  back  to-morrow.  I  shall  go 
somewhere  else." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  speaking  for 
the  good  of  the  house,  rather  than  expressing  his  per- 
sonal desire. 

"I'm  not  being  made  comfortable." 

"Very  sorry  to  hear  you  say  that,  sir.  Is  there 
anything  further  I  can  do?" 

"No,  you're  all  right.  It's  the  whole  thing  that's 
so  dashed  uncomfortable" ;  and  Mr.  Jarndice  looked 
round  the  room.  "Miss  Brown  caught  me  with  her 
humbugging  advertisement — Veil-managed  homelike 
establishment' " ;  and  he  laughed  contemptuously. 
"Queer  sort  of  home,  eh?  Queer  birds  that  could  see 
any  suggestions  of  home  in  this  apartment !" 

"It  doesn't  strike  me  in  that  light,  sir,"  said  Mr. 
Welby,  suddenly  clattering  another  lot  of  plated  dishes. 
Then  he  put  one  of  them  with  a  bump  on  the  table. 

"What's  this?" 

Mr.  Welby  consulted  the  menu  in  order  to  refresh 
his  memory. 

"Cutlets,  sir,  'ar  lar  soobeeze!" 

The  young  man  tasted  the  sauce  and  made  a  wry 
face. 


THE  OLD  SONG  359 

"Take  this  down  to  the  cook  and  ask  her  to  eat  it 
for  her  own  supper.  Give  her  my  compliments  and  tell 
her  she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself." 

"No,  sir,  I  shan't  tell  her  that." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  she's  my  wife";  and  Mr.  Welby  made  a 
tremendous  clatter  with  the  dishes. 

"Oh,  is  that  so?" 

"That  is  so,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  violently  sup- 
pressing himself;  "and  the  best  wife  a  man  ever  had." 

"Sorry,"  said  Mr.  Jarndice,  showing  some  compunc- 
tion, "if  I've  inadvertently  wounded  your  feelings." 
Then  he  laughed.  "But  you  see  what  I  mean  ?  Affec- 
tion and  all  that  isn't  cooking.  When  one's  fond  of 
a  person  one  gets  used  to  anything.  I'm  not  married, 
but  what  I  mean  is,  a  person  may  be  a  very  good  wife 
but  a  dashed  bad  cook." 

Mr.  Welby  hurried  from  the  room  and  sought  the 
aid  of  Miss  Brown. 

"That  young  Jarndice — you  know,  him  that  come 
yesterday — is  going  on  so  that  I  shall  lose  my  temper 
with  him." 

"You  mustn't  do  that,"  said  Sarah  firmly.  "No, 
no.  Guests  are  guests";  and  she  bustled  from  the 
office  to  the  dining-room. 

She  looked  very  impressive  in  her  black  silk  dress, 
with  a  gold  chain  and  cameo  locket  round  her  neck, 
and  by  a  few  tactful  words  she  put  everything  right. 

"I  am  so  distressed,  sir,  that  you've  found  cause  to 
complain  of  the  dinner";  and  she  smiled  insinuatingly. 
"But  you  must  make  excuses ;  for  the  fact  is  we  weren't 
expecting  you.  It  is  a  little  late,  sir,  isn't  it?  Quarter 
past  nine!  And  table-d'hote  at  seven."  And  Sarah 


360  A  LITTLE  MORE 

nodded  her  head  and  became  playful.  "Well,  we 
thought  as  you  were  so  late,  you'd  fallen  among  friends 
and  gone  to  some  fashionable  dinner-party.  But 
now" — and  Sarah  was  solemn  and  anxious  again, — 
"now  may  I  have  an  omelette  cooked  specially  for  you? 
It  won't  take  three  minutes." 

Mr.  Jarndice  was  mollified,  and  said  he  would  not 
give  this  trouble. 

"Welby,"  Sarah  called,  "a  slice  of  cold  ham.  Then 
the  sweets.  And  offer  Mr.  Jarndice  some  of  the  new 
Cheddar";  and  she  went  back  to  her  office. 

Mr.  Welby  continued  the  service  of  the  dinner,  and 
a  few  minutes  passed  before  the  young  man  spoke 
again. 

"That's  quite  a  decent-looking  girl  sits  in  Miss 
Brown's  office.  Can  you  give  me  any  tips  about  her? 
Who  is  she?" 

"She's  my  daughter-in-law,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  swell- 
ing. 

"Oh !  And  no  doubt  as  virtuous  as  she  is  attractive. 
That  goes  without  saying."  Mr.  Jarndice  laughed  and 
then  yawned.  "Look  here,"  he  said  presently.  "I 
saw  them  carting  in  a  perambulator  this  morning. 
Does  that  mean  you're  expecting  a  lot  of  children 
here?" 

"No,  sir.     Only  one  is  expected." 

"Well,  I  shall  clear  out.  Can't  stand  brats.  When's 
it  coming?" 

"Not  for  some  little  time,  sir.  I  think  I  heard 
March  mentioned  as  the  date,  so  to  speak,  booked  for 
it." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  I  shall  be  gone  ages  before 
then." 


THE  OLD  SONG  361 

"Hope  you'll  change  your  mind  and  prolong  your 
visit,"  said  Mr.  Welby  loyally. 

"I  say.  That  fellow  you  got  to  clean  my  bicycle 
must  be  a  clumsy  lout.  He  bent  the  mud-guard.  Who 
was  he?  Where  does  he  hang  out?" 

"He  is  my  son,  sir — and  he  comes  to  lend  a  hand 
of  a  morning." 

"Bless  us.  The  whole  place  seems  worked  by  your 
family." 

"We  are  here  as  it  were  temporarily,"  said  Mr. 
Welby.  "These  are  difficult  times  for  hotel  manage- 
ment. Miss  Brown  had  trouble  with  her  staff." 

"Well,  bring  my  coffee  into  the  lounge.  I'll  go  and 
stir  up  the  old  tabbies  playing  patience  and  see  if  I 
can't  knock  a  tune  out  of  the  gramophone." 

"Yes,  sir." 

As  Mr.  Welby  passed  through  the  brilliantly  illu- 
minated hall  a  visitor  came  in  at  the  front  door  and 
called  to  him  cheerily. 

"How  are  you,  my  dear  Mr.  Welby.  Can  I  see  Miss 
Brown?" 

"Yes,  sir.     I'll  tell  her." 

"No,  don't  trouble.     I'll  go  straight  in." 

It  was  Mr.  Carillon.  Lately  he  had  come  often  of 
an  evening,  and  he  used  to  remain  closeted  with  Sarah 
for  an  hour  at  a  time,  discussing  some  private  business 
in  which  both  seemed  to  be  deeply  interested.  Mr. 
Welby's  manner  to  the  vicar  was  strictly  professional 
and  respectful ;  but  Mr.  Carillon  insisted  upon  shaking 
hands  with  great  cordiality  and  friendliness,  and  he 
refused  to  accept  aid  in  taking  off  his  military  over- 
coat. 

"Thank  you,  sir.     Step   this   way,   sir";   and  Mr. 


362  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Welby  opened  the  door  of  that  little  room  where  the 
family  used  to  keep  their  hats  and  coats,  their  tennis 
rackets,  croquet  mallets,  and  other  odds  and  ends.  It 
was  now  the  office.  "Mr.  Carillon,  ma'am." 

"Oh,  come  in,"  said  Sarah.  "One  moment,  Welby. 
Two  more  coffees  wanted  in  the  lounge,  and  be  careful 
how  you  book  them.  I  expect  it's  Mr.  Jarndice  stand- 
ing treat  to  those  young  ladies." 

Mr.  Welby  went  on  with  his  work.  But  the  meeting 
with  Mr.  Carillon  had  brought  back  a  wave  of  painful 
memories.  He  was  suffering  now.  He  thought  of  the 
time  when  he  used  to  entertain  that  young  man  as  a 
shy  but  welcome  guest;  he  thought  of  those  jolly 
friendly  dinners,  so  unpretentious,  so  innocently  gay, 
so  anecdotally  chatty,  when  he  himself  sat  carving  the 
wholesome  joint,  or  stood  up  to  do  it,  surrounded  by 
all  the  bright  happy  hopeful  faces.  They  were  free 
and  easy,  quite  without  ceremony,  and  yet  everyone 
paid  him  respect,  honoured  him,  listened  to  what  he  was 
saying — even  if  he  had  said  it  once  or  twice  before. 
And  now ! 

"Well,  Miss  Brown.  Well,  Mrs.  Jack,"  said  Carillon 
cheerily,  greeting  the  ladies  in  the  office.  "Busy  as 
usual!  Mrs.  Jack,  I  saw  your  husband  this  after- 
noon." 

Amabel,  seated  at  her  typewriter  and  looking  extra- 
ordinarily pretty,  had  paused  in  her  task;  now  she 
turned  and  set  the  machine  going  again.  Behind  her 
back  Carillon  gave  Sarah  a  large  and  very  unclerical 
wink. 

"That's  enough,  Mrs.  Jack,"  said  Sarah,  correctly 
interpreting  the  signal.  "You  go  to  bed  now,  dear." 


THE  OLD  SONG  363 

"I'm  not  a  bit  tired,"  said  Amabel.  "Mayn't  I 
finish?" 

"No,  dear,"  said  Sarah,  too  honest  to  make  further 
pretences.  "Mr.  Carillon  wants  to  be  alone  with  me. 
Go  downstairs,  if  you  like,  and  talk  to  Violet.  She's 
down  there,  with  her  mother." 

Amabel  obediently  left  the  room. 

A  wistful  expression  had  come  in  to  the  face  of  Mr. 
Carillon,  and  he  spoke  hesitatingly. 

"I  didn't  know  Violet  was  here." 

"She  runs  in  for  half  an  hour  when  she  can.  Do 
you  wish  to  see  her?" 

"No,  no.  Or  shall  I?"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  hesitating. 
"No,  I  think  I  had  better  not.  No,  I  won't,"  he  said 
firmly.  "I've  no  excuse.  You  know,  I  see  her  from 
time  to  time — fairly  frequently." 

"You  haven't  told  her  what  you're  trying  to  do?" 

"No,  not  a  word — not  half  a  word.  And  I  rely  on 
you,  you  dear  old  thing,  not  to  give  the  slightest  hint 
to  any  of  them.  Jack  agrees  with  me  that  it  would  be 
too  bad  to  raise  their  hopes,  until  one  was  really  justi- 
fied. But  now,  Sarah — about  Violet";  and  he  spoke 
with  sudden  enthusiasm.  "How  is  she  proving  the  stuff 
in v her!  Miss  Castlemayne  says  she  never  stops  work- 
ing. They  try  to  stop  her.  They  can't.  They  say 
they  never  had  such  a  housemaid  in  their  lives.  They 
say " 

"Yes,  sir.  Was  it  about  Miss  Violet  that  you  wished 
to  speak  to  me?"  asked  Sarah,  and  she  had  a  mischiev- 
ously shrewd  smile. 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  with  his 
colour  deepening.  "I've  heaps  of  things  to  tell  you — 
all  good  news.  I'm  full  of  hope." 


364  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Then  they  talked  together  very  seriously. 

"And  the  solicitor  gentlemen?"  Sarah  asked  pres- 
ently. "They're  hopeful  too?" 

"Very  much  so.  That  stationary  lump  with  the  eye- 
glass, that  tortoise,  that  limpet  of  primeval  rocks — 
that  Mr.  Rolls — is  really  moving  like  a  good  'un  at 
last.  You  should  have  seen  him  frisking  round  the 
government  offices  with  me  yesterday  afternoon.  And 
the  other  fellow — Mr.  Smart.  My  word,  Sarah,  Smart's 
the  chap  to  make  *em  jump  to  it.  Smart's  a  real 
hustler.  I  take  off  my  hat  to  Smart." 

Then  they  talked  of  Jack. 

"Sarah,  I  believe  we're  going  to  carry  through 
Jack's  little  business.  I  had  Jack  at  the  War  Office 
this  afternoon,  and  Sir  George  Brace  gave  us  every 
reason  to  hope.  Sir  George  is  Miss  Castlemayne's 
uncle,  you  know.  See  how  every  little  helps." 

Then  Mr.  Carillon  had  a  quite  exuberant  outburst 
of  joyousness  and  enthusiasm. 

"Sarah,  my  dear  old  girl,  it's  good  to  be  alive;  for 
say  what  you  will,  how  wonderful,  how  splendid  life 
is!" 

"And  so  it  is,  sir." 

"So  interesting,  so  full  of  romance.  Every  day, 
every  hour  of  it,  is  crowded  with  such  strange  chances 
— each  little  thing  leading  to  another,  and  all  leading 
the  right  way,  if  you  have  the  courage  to  do  and  the 
faith  to  believe.  It  beats  me,  Sarah,  how  even  the 
irreligious  people  can  think  that  we  men  and  women  are 
just  the  playthings  of  destiny." 

"Oh,  it  don't  do  to  take  notice  of  the  rubbish  some 
folk  will  tell  you,"  said  Sarah  sagely. 

"If  we  are  puppets,  we  are  not  puppets  on  strings, 


THE  OLD  SONG  365 

Sarah.  We're  free,  all  the  time.  There's  nothing  we 
can't  do — yes,  we're  giants,  our  powers  have  no  limits, 
so  long  as  we  spend  our  lives  in  faithful  service. 
That's  why  it's  so  awfully  jolly  when  you  see  your  way 
to  do  other  people  a  good  turn — and  why  all  difficulties 
seem  to  disappear  like  magic  when  you  cease  to  think 
about  yourself  and  are  only  trying  to  help  some  one 
else."  " 

"That's  true  too,"  said  §arah. 

"May  I  smoke?"  asked  Carillon  abruptly;  rather  in 
the  tone  of  a  man  who  feels  he  has  made  a  rhetorical 
flight  and  is  glad  to  land  on  commonplace  ground 
again. 

He  lit  a  battered  wooden  pipe,  and,  puffing  at  it  with 
much  satisfaction,  ran  over  again  the  series  of  little 
chances  that  were  now  leading  to  the  establishment  of 
Jack  Welby's  title  to  recognition  from  a  grateful 
country  for  a  feat  of  arms  performed  by  him  nearly  a 
year  ago. 

The  first  chance  was  when  an  unhappy  bereaved  lady 
in  the  north  of  England  showed  to  a  visiting  clergy- 
man the  blood-stained  pocket-book  that  had  been  found 
upon  the  dead  body  of  her  husband.  The  clergyman, 
struck  by  the  importance  to  a  certain  Sergeant  Welby, 
if  still  alive,  of  the  strong  recommendation  on  a  leaf  of 
the  pocket-book,  had  caused  advertisements  to  be  put 
in  newspapers ;  and  perhaps  the  luckiest  chance  of  all 
was  that  Jack  himself  happened  to  see  one  of  these 
advertisements.  A  further  good  chance  was  the  finding 
of  an  officer  who  had  been  in  that  little  wood  and  had 
seen  Jack's  defence  of  the  sunk  road.  From  this  officer 
to  a  brigadier  and  to  a  divisional  commander  were  easy 
steps.  Then  came  the  surprisingly  good  chance  that 


366  A  LITTLE  MORE 

Carillon,  during  one  of  his  many  visits  to  the  War 
Office,  tumbled  upon  a  room  presided  over  by  a  certain 
Colonel  Adolphus  Faring,  who  at  once  declared  himself 
as  a  personal  friend  of  Jack's. 

"Faring — you  don't  know  the  name,  do  you,  Sarah? 
— Faring  has  been  enormously  useful.  It  appears  that 
his  wife — she  was  a  Miss  Quartz — did  you  ever  hear 
that  name? — is  as  much  interested  as  Faring  himself. 
More  so,  perhaps."  And  Mr.  Carillon  laughed. 
"Between  you  and  me,  from  the  way  she  has  kept 
Colonel  Adolphus  up  to  the  mark,  I  rather  suspect  she 
must  have  been  more  or  less  the  victim  of  Jack's  well- 
known  charm  of  manner." 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised,"  said  Sarah. 

"Then  a  certain  Lady  Augusta — I  forget  her  other 
name ; — but,  anyhow,  this  Lady  Augusta  has  come  into 
it  somehow  and  is  very  active  indeed.  Her  father  knows 
Miss  Castlemayne's  uncle.  Yes,"  and  Carillon  laughed 
again,  "I  can  tell  you  we're  pulling  some  wires  for  Mr. 
Jack,  and  I  honestly  believe  we  shall  do  the  trick  for 
him." 

While  Sarah  and  the  vicar  talked  thus,  Mr.  Welby 
had  carried  the  three  coffees  to  the  lounge. 

To  get  there  he  passed  through  the  old  verandah, 
which  was  now  solidly  cased  in  woodwork  and  formed 
part  of  a  long  corridor  leading  to  the  two  next  houses. 
With*  art  curtains,  basket  chairs,  and  electric  lamps  in 
pink  paper,  the  corridor  had  a  very  gay  and  tasteful 
effect.  From  the  lounge  itself,  which  consisted  of  the 
ground  floor  rooms  of  the  middle  house  with  all  the 
walls  removed,  there  came  forth  to  meet  Mr.  Welby  a 
loud  chorus  of  laughter,  voices,  and  music. 


THE  OLD  SONG  367 

Then,  as  he  entered,  the  noisy  gramophone  stopped 
playing. 

"And  ye'll  not  start  it  again,"  said  a  bearded  elderly 
man.  "My  wife  has  already  expressed  to  ye  her  strong 
objection  to  it." 

"Oh,  come,"  said  Mr.  Jarndice  gaily.  "The  greatest 
good  for  the  greatest  number.  Let's  see  if  the  ayes 
have  it  or  the  noes  have  it.  Ladies  and  gentlemen, 
hands  up  for  another  tune";  and,  laughing,  he  began 
to  turn  the  handle  of  the  machine. 

"No,  no.     I  protest,"  said  the  bearded  gentleman. 

Two  vividly  provincial  young  ladies  with  circlets  of 
coloured  ribbon  binding  ringlets  to  their  ears  and  fore- 
heads were  hanging  about  Mr.  Jarndice,  encouraging 
him,  egging  him  on. 

"Miss  Spool  wants  some  more,"  he  cried  trium- 
phantly. "So  does  Miss  Mills." 

Miss  Spool  and  Miss  Mills  giggled  delightedly.  They 
said  they  adored  the  gramophone;  one  of  them  even 
nudging  Mr.  Jarndice  to  increase  his  recklessness. 

But  the  elder  ladies  with  shawls,  who  wished  to  play 
patience  or  read  novels  or  count  the  stitches  of  their 
knitting,  over-ruled  the  young  people.  They  had  had 
enough  of  the  gramophone.  Mrs.  Dormer,  the  oldest 
lady  present,  very  sensibly  suggested  that  the  gramo- 
phone should  be  taken  into  another  apartment;  then 
everybody  could  be  satisfied. 

And  so  the  matter  arranged  itself.  Mr.  Welby  was 
told  to  take  his  tray  back  into  the  coffee-room;  Mr. 
Jarndice  and  the  two  noisy  laughing  girls  themselves 
moved  the  gramophone  and  fixed  it  on  the  sideboard. 
With  much  lively  chaff  now  that  they  were  away  from 
observation,  they  drank  their  coffee  and  then  clustered 


368  A  LITTLE  MORE 

round  the  instrument,  sorting  the  records  and  seeking 
for  something  new. 

Mr.  Welby  stood  at  a  little  distance,  watching  them 
but  not  thinking  about  them;  lost  really,  wandering 
far  into  the  past.  Miss  Spool,  noticing  him,  laughed 
and  whispered  to  Miss  Mills. 

"The  old  waiter  wants  to  hear  a  tune.  But  pretty 
cool,  his  standing  there  like  that  without  permission, 
what?" 

Young  Mr.  Jarndice,  adjusting  a  record,  glanced 
round,  saw  Mr.  Welby's  rapt  expression,  and  laughed 
too. 

"Here  we  are,"  he  said,  manipulating  the  instrument ; 
"Madame  Clara  Butt:  English  Song  Series.  .  .  .  Oh, 
bless  us.  What  a  chestnut." 

The  gramophone  was  crackling  and  spluttering  in 
the  too  familiar  prelude.  Then  the  glorious  contralto 
voice  rolled  forth  voluminously  and  sweetly: 

"  'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble  there's  no  place  like  home.  .  .  ." 

The  voice  went  thrilling  on: 

"Home,  home,  sweet  sweet  home.  .  .  ." 

The  voice  ceased,  and  after  sounds  of  clockwork 
running  down  silence  filled  the  room. 

Mr.  Welby  had  been  overwhelmed.  One  of  the  girls, 
looking  round  at  him,  broke  the  silence  with  a  loud 
laugh.  He  was  gulping,  shaking,  wiping  his  eyes. 

"Yes,  look  at  him,"  whispered  the  other  girl.  "I 
believe  he  must  have  had  a  drop." 

And  they  all  three  laughed  gaily. 

"What's  upsetting  you,  waiter?     What  is  it?" 

"I  beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  pulling  himself 


THE  OLD  SONG  369 

together.  "But  that  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  very 
beautiful  and  affecting  song — both  the  music  and  the 
words.  And  for  private  reasons,  hearing  it  on  this 
spot,  unexpectedly,  well,  I  was  quite  affected.  .  .  .  Do 
I  book  the  coffees  to  you,  sir?  Thank  you." 

Then  he  collected  the  cups  and  carried  them  out  on 
his  tray,  imitating  Timesman  again. 


CHAPTER  III 

BELOW  stairs  at  The  Cedars  all  her  fellow- 
servants  told  Violet  that  the  vicar  and  Miss 
Castlemayne  were  going  to  make  a  match  of  it ; 
they  said,  "Believe  me,  Violet,  she  has  been  at  it  for 
years,  but  now  she'll  bring  it  off" ;  and  Violet  of  course 
believed.  How  could  she  do  otherwise?  Had  not  the 
vicar  himself  told  her  that  he  was  beginning  to  regard 
Miss  Castlemayne  as  his  right  hand,  and  had  not 
the  young  lady  declared  with  an  affected  but  significant 
smile  that  for  her  the  vicar's  word  was  law? 

Only  the  head  house  maid,  Prudence,  a  dry  grey  old 
maid,  threw  doubt  on  Miss  Castlemayne's  triumphant 
success. 

"There's  many  a  slip  between  the  cup  and  the  lip," 
said  Prudence;  "and  of  all  birds,  church-birds  are  the 
hardest  to  put  salt  on  their  tails.  I  don't  deny  she's 
trying;  but  didn't  she  try  for  her  cousin  the  Captain? 
And  nothing  came  of  that,  did  it?" 

"She  only  tried  for  her  cousin  because  Mr.  Carillon 
was  out  of  the  way,"  said  Edith  the  parlourmaid;  and 
she  gave  a  sigh.  "I  shouldn't  mind,  if  I  thought  she 
was  good  enough  for  him.  But  she  isn't,  and  it's  no 
use  pretending  she  is." 

Violet  was  entirely  of  this  opinion. 

Old  Prudence  chuckled.  "I  don't  know  why  you 
should  fret  about  it,  Edith.  You  can't  hardly  expect 
that  he'll  come  downstairs  to  look  for  a  wife  in  the 

servants'  hall,  can  you?" 

370 


THE  OLD  SONG  371 

"No,"  said  Edith,  sighing  more  heavily  than  before. 

Violet  sighed  too,  but  inwardly,  inaudibly.  They 
little  knew  how  cruelly  these  idle  words  had  stung  her. 

When  she  cleaned  Miss  Castlemayne's  boudoir  on 
the  first  floor  every  morning  she  used  to  see  all  the 
parish  papers  in  masses  upon  the  inlaid  writing-table; 
she  picked  up  some  of  them,  and  fingered  them.  She 
daily  scrutinized  Miss  Castlemayne's  large  memoran- 
dum block,  and  scarcely  ever  without  finding  an  entry 
that  disturbed  her  strangely,  such  as:  "The  vicar 
says  more  physical  exercises  and  less  dancing  at  the 
evening  ^school" ;  or  "Five-thirty.  To  meet  vicar  at 
the  church  club";  or  "The  vicar  will  look  in  here  be- 
fore vespers."  There  was  a  framed  photograph  of 
him — a  group  of  the  Girls'  Brigade,  with  him  in  the 
middle.  Violet  picked  this  up  too,  held  it  a  long  time 
in  her  hand  as  she  dusted  it  very  slowly  and  gently  with 
the  lightest  of  her  feather  brushes. 

It  was  in  this  room  that  Miss  Castlemayne  generally 
received  him  when  he  called  to  discuss  parish  business. 
Violet  used  to  think  of  them  sitting  here  at  the  desk 
side  by  side,  close  together  probably,  while  she  put  the 
papers  before  him,  and  drawled  and  blinked,  touching 
his  hand  perhaps  every  now  and  then,  as  if  inadver- 
tently, all  among  the  papers.  He  would  be  just  giv- 
ing her  his  orders ;  grandly  and  authoritatively ;  telling 
her  what  to  do  and  what  not  to  do,  in  regard  to  dis- 
trict-visiting, the  mothers'  meetings,  and  every  other 
intensely  fascinating  detail  of  the  parish  work. 

While  he  was  in  the  house  Violet  could  not  keep 
still.  She  roamed  wildly  about  the  upper  floors;  al- 
though it  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  she  set  to  work 
again.  There  was  really  no  work  to  do;  but  she 


372  A  LITTLE  MORE 

banged  open  the  door  of  the  housemaids'  cupboard, 
brought  out  her  things,  and  cleaned  the  bathroom  for 
the  second  time  that  day. 

Edith  had  run  up  to  tell  her  he  was  here. 

"I  let  him  in,"  said  Edith,  rolling  her  eyes  and  hold- 
ing her  hand  to  her  bosom  as  if  to  check  the  beating 
of  her  heart.  "He  gave  me  one  look,  Violet.  Oh,  it 
was  almost  more  than  I  could  bear.  But  I  must  run 
down  now,  or  I  may  miss  the  chance  of  letting  him 
out." 

Violet  gave  a  bitter  little  laugh.  "You  needn't 
hurry,  Edith.  He'll  be  in  there  with  her  for  ages  yet." 

"Yes,  that's  true.  She'll  spin  it  out,  you  bet.  I 
don't  blame  her  either.  Violet,  what  do  you  think  they 
say  to  each  other  all  the  time?  Do  you  suppose  he 
kisses  her?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know — or  care  either";  and  Violet 
scrubbed  the  bath  with  almost  maniacal  force. 

"7  care,"  said  Edith  desperately.  "It  drives  me 
frantic  to  think  about.  There.  They've  opened  the 
door" ;  and  she  dashed  downstairs. 

Violet  cared  too — most  dreadfully.  She  suffered 
torments  during  these  visits  of  the  vicar;  it  was  only 
by  her  frenzied  labours  that  she  could  anyhow  tran- 
quillize herself.  And  all  the  while  she  was  wondering 
whether  he  would  have  her  fetched  and  say  a  few  words 
to  her.  They  summoned  her  as  a  rule  at  the  end  of  the 
visit. 

"But  he  won't  do  it  to-day,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"He  won't  have  time;"  and  her  eyes  flashed  and  her 
hands  trembled.  "Merciful  powers,  he  has  been  in 
there  forty  minutes  already.  What  can  they  be  do- 
ing? Where's  that  old  foci,  Mrs.  Castlemayne?  Why 


THE  OLD  SONG.  373 

doesn't  she  go  and  join  them?  Engaged  or  not,  I  don't 
think  it's  very  good  form  leaving  them  alone  always  and 
for  ever.  Mother  would  never  have  done  a  thing  like 
that." 

Then  when  she  was  sent  for,  when  she  heard  Miss 
Castlemayne's  voice  calling  for  her,  she  hid.  She  who 
had  once  been  so  self-possessed,  so  majestic,  felt  as 
shy  and  perturbed  as  a  child. 

"Violet.  Violet."  Edith  was  seeking  her.  "Lucky 
girl.  You're  wanted  down  in  the  hall.  He  gave  me 
another  look." 

Violet  went  down  to  the  hall  and  stood  there  with 
her  bare  fore-arms  and  tucked  up  apron ;  her  face  was 
glowing,  her  eyelids  drooped,  she  did  not  seem  to  see 
that  he  had  intended  to  shake  hands. 

Miss  Castlemayne,  in  a  graceful  attitude  by  the  mar- 
ble table,  spoke  of  her  encouragingly  and  patroniz- 
ingly. 

"We  are  so  pleased  with  her,  vicar.  We  think  she's 
quite  wonderful.  She  has  learnt  everything  Prudence 
can  tell  her." 

Carillon's  honest  countenance  shone  with  satisfaction 
as  he  heard  this  praise  of  the  industrious  housemaid; 
but  Violet  in  her  confusion  never  observed  the  signs 
of  his  pleasure.  Those  interviews  were  dreadful  to 
her ;  yet  it  was  more  dreadful  still  when  he  left  the 
house  without  asking  to  see  her. 

"Not  afraid  of  work,  I  hear,"  he  would  say  cheerily. 
"Sticking  to  it  in  grand  style.  Miss  Castlemayne  tells 
me  she's  afraid  of  your  doing  too  much." 

"I  really  am,"  drawled  Miss  Castlemayne.  **We  beg 
her  not  to  overdo  it." 

Then  Mr.  Carillon  asked  a  few  questions.     Had  she 


374  A-  LITTLE  MORE 

been  to  see  Gladys  lately?  Did  she  think  that  Gladys 
was  putting  on  weight  as  well  as  gaining  strength? 
Was  Gladys  really  and  truly  happy  with  those  people 
in  whose  charge  he  placed  her  after  she  came  out  of  the 
hospital  ? 

During  one  such  conversation,  when  Violet  was  mur- 
muring her  grateful  thanks  for  all  he  had  done  with 
regard  to  Gladys,  he  said  something  that  made  her 
draw  a  deep  breath  and  look  up  at  his  face  with  large 
startled  eyes.  Dropping  his  voice,  he  had  said  hur- 
riedly, "I  couldn't  do  less  for  Gladys,  after  all  you 
had  done  for  her.  If  not  for  her  own  sake,  it  had  to 
be  done  for  your  sake." 

For  days  Violet  carried  in  her  ears  the  echo  of  this 
brief  speech,  feeling  that  somehow  it  had  given  her  new 
hope  and  courage.  Surely  it  meant  something  more 
than  mere  universal  humanity?  He  would  have  been 
noble  and  generous  to  Gladys  in  any  event,  but  he 
wished  Violet  to  draw  the  inference  that  he  had  been 
pleased  in  pleasing  her. 

Ordinarily,  however,  nothing  so  tremendous  occurred 
during  the  interview.  He  asked  his  friendly  questions, 
speaking  just  as  a  vicar  speaks  to  any  humble  res- 
ident in  his  parish;  and  very  soon  Miss  Castlemayne 
gave  her  a  hint  that  she  could  withdraw. 

"And,  Edith,  you  need  not  wait  either.  I'll  see  Mr. 
Carillon  out  myself." 

"Very  good,  miss,"  said  Edith  glumly;  and  she 
dashed  down  into  the  basement,  almost  capsizing  Violet 
on  the  steep  and  narrow  stairs. 

There  was  a  window  in  the  basement,  just  beside  the 
front  door  steps,  at  which  all  the  servants  clustered  to 
watch  Mr.  Carillon  walk  down  the  drive  when  at  last 


THE  OLD  SONG  375 

Miss  Castlemayne  permitted  him  to  tear  himself  away. 
There  they  all  stood,  on  tiptoe,  feverishly  excited,  as 
if  they  had  never  watched  him  before.  Even  the 
kitchenmaid,  scarce  more  than  a  flapper,  joined  in  the 
chorus  of  rapturous  admiration. 

His  chaplain's  work  was  nearly  done  now,  so  that 
on  some  days  one  saw  him  in  black  coat  and  Roman 
collar,  and  on  other  days  in  khaki  with  Sam  Brown 
belt  and  medal  ribbons. 

"There  he  goes,"  whispered  the  kitchenmaid.  "In 
his  clericals !  I  like  'em  best.  Yes,  I  do." 

"Oh,  turn  round  and  give  me  one  more  look,"  cried 
Edith,  kissing  her  hand  to  the  retreating  figure. 

Old  Prudence  chuckled  derisively. 

"How  you  gells  can  go  on  so  silly !  Well,  I  wonder 
you  aren't  ashamed  of  your  silliness." 

"Oh,  he's  too  lovely,"  Edith  continued.  "Oh,  sup- 
port me,  I  can't  bear  it." 

"It's  all  very  well,  Prudence,  you  laughing,"  said 
Daphne  the  cook.  "But  ever  since  the  world  began 
there's  been  two  forms  of  men  sent  to  tantalize  and 
delight  us  women.  One's  a  soldier  and  the  other's  a 
clergyman.  When  you  get  them  both  rolled  into  one 
— well,  it  isn't  fair.  Who  can  resist  it?" 

Edith  was  becoming  almost  hysterical  as  Mr. 
Carillon  neared  the  gates  at  the  end  of  the  drive. 
"You  darling,"  she  cried.  "You  lamb.  You  angel. 
Look  back — just  once." 

But  Mr.  Carillon  went  out  through  the  gates  and 
never  looked  behind  him. 

He  used  to  pass  those  gates  early  in  the  morning, 
doing  his  first  rounds,  at  about  the  time  that  Violet 
was  cleaning  the  front  door-steps.  On  her  knees  she 


376  A  LITTLE  MORE 

saw  him  pass  by,  and  her  eyes  once  filled  with  tears 
when  he  had  gone  and  she  saw  the  gates  blankly  void 
again. 

She  thought  of  what  she  had  lost — not  that  com- 
fortable middle-class  home  a  hundred  yards  away,  not 
the  pocket  money,  the  plain  wholesome  food,  or  the 
golf  croquet,  but  the  treasure  of  this  man's  love.  It 
was  hers  and  she  never  valued  it. 

One  morning  she  saw  him  at  the  gates  in  uniform, 
and  on  horseback.  It  was  one  of  those  days  that  seem 
to  tell  you  that  the  winter  is  nearly  over  and  spring- 
tide coming  fast.  No  buds  had  yet  burst  on  the  trees, 
but  daffodils,  almond  blossom,  and  the  last  of  the 
crocuses,  gave  colour  and  life  amid  the  dark  evergreen 
foliage  of  The  Cedars  shrubbery;  the  sun  shone  with  a 
tremulous  brightness,  and  in  its  beautiful  golden  flicker 
the  mounted  officer  at  the  gates  seemed  a  vision  that 
symbolized  masculine  perfection.  In  the  phrase  of 
her  fellow-servant,  Violet  felt  that  it  was  more  than 
she  could  bear.  She  shifted  the  queer  little  sort  of 
praying-mat  that  she  knelt  upon,  grovelled  across  the 
top  step,  and  scrubbed  wildly  yet  impotently. 

But  she  had  to  look  round  when  she  heard  the 
sound  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the  gravel. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Carillon,  stopping  the  horse 
with  negligent  ease,  and  sitting  there  as  if  the  saddle 
had  been  an  arm-chair.  "I  borrowed  this  old  skin 
from  a  pal,  because  I  had  some  distance  to  go";  and 
he  slapped  the  horse  hardily,  daringly. 

Violet  asked  if  he  wished  to  see  Miss  Castlemayne, 
adding  that  she  feared  the  young  mistress  was  not 
yet  fully  dressed :  but  Mr.  Carillon  said  no,  he  did 
not  want  to  disturb  anybody.  Seeing  Violet,  he 


THE  OLD  SONG  377 

had    merely    looked    in    to    say    a    few  words    to    her. 

The  blood  rushed  to  Violet's  head,  but  she  hung  it 
lower,  beginning  to  grovel  and  scrub  again. 

"I  have  been  so  busy  these  last  few  days,"  he  said 
in  an  explanatory  tone. 

"Yes,  I  know  how  busy  you  are,"  said  Violet,  scrub- 
bing hard. 

He  did  not  tell  her  that  his  business  nowadays  re- 
lated almost  entirely  to  her  own  family.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "very  busy.  By  the  way,  I  saw  your  sister  Prim- 
rose yesterday." 

"That  was  kind  of  you." 

"Not  a  bit.  She  sent  you  her  love.  Primrose  is 
going  very  strong.  Yes,  Primrose  is  really  in  immense 
form." 

Then  he  leaned  forward  on  the  neck  of  his  horse  in 
a  most  reckless  manner,  as  if  wishing  to  get  nearer  to 
her  for  more  confidential  discourse. 

"Violet!  Do  stop  scrubbing  half  a  minute.  I  say 
— when  is  your  next  afternoon  out?" 

"My  afternoon  out !"  Violet,  as  she  echoed  the 
words,  relinquished  her  brush,  and  knelt  high  upon 
her  praying-mat.  "My  afternoon  out  is  Wednesday." 
And  she  stared  at  him  amazedly. 

"Wednesday!  The  day  after  to-morrow.  That'll 
do  capitally.  Now  look  here,  I  want  you  to  spend 
your  afternoon  with  me,  if  you  don't  mind — just  for  a 
walk  and  a  talk.  What  time  shall  I  come  and  fetch 
you?" 

It  seemed  to  Violet  that  the  weak  pale  sunshine  had 
suddenly  blazed  out  with  the  overpowering  force  of 
tropic  lands. 


378  A  LITTLE  MORE 

"What  time  shall  I  come  and  fetch  you?"  he  said 
again. 

"Three  o'clock,"  said  Violet,  faintly.  "But  please 
don't  come  to  the  house.  I  will  meet  you  at  the  top 
of  the  road.  I — I  don't  want  the  servants  to  see  you." 

"What!  No  followers  allowed?"  said  Carillon 
laughing.  "Is  that  the  rule,  eh?  Very  well.  Top  of 
the  road —  Three  P.  M.  Bye-bye  till  then,  and  don't 
work  so  hard." 

He  saluted,  turned  his  horse,  and  cantered  away. 
Violet  thought  he  was  galloping  at  full  speed;  she 
dreaded  that  the  furious  beast  might  overpower  him, 
strong  as  he  was.  She  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  stood 
with  a  hand  to  her  trembling  lips,  watching  him  till  he 
had  slowed  down  and  gone  through  the  gates  safely. 

On  Wednesday  the  spring-like  weather  still  held,  and 
the  sun  shone  as  Violet  shyly  went  up  the  road  to  keep 
her  appointment.  He  was  there — waiting  for  her — 
and  they  walked  away  together.  He  wore  clerical  gar- 
ments to-day,  and  Violet  noticed  this,  at  first  with 
disappointment ;  then  the  change  mysteriously  gave  her 
pleasure.  Perhaps  because  it  seemed  to  make  him, 
outwardly  at  least,  closer  to  what  he  had  once  been. 

Directly,  they  had  turned  the  first  corner,  he 
stopped.  "Look  here,"  he  said  joyously,  "I've  some- 
thing to  show  you."  And  he  fished  out  of  his  pocket 
a  large  folded  copy  of  the  Times  newspaper.  "Splen- 
did news,  Vi.  Look  at  this.  We've  done  the  trick  for 
old  Jack,  and  got  him  his  reward  at  last.  Here  you 
are,"  and  he  pointed  with  his  finger.  It  was  a  London 
Gazette  with  two  marked  entries.  The  former,  with  a 
date  to  it  of  a  year  ago,  announced  that  Sergeant 


THE  OLD  SONG  379 

John  Welby  was  appointed  Second  Lieutenant;  the 
latter  entry,  under  the  heading  Honours  and  Awards, 
announced  that  Second  Lieutenant  Welby  had  been 
awarded  the  Military  Cross. 

"How  splendid!"  said  Violet,  with  her  eyes  glowing. 
"How  proud  and  pleased  mother  and  Amabel  will  be! 
And  he  owes  it  all  to  you.  Every  bit  of  it." 

"Bosh !"  said  Carillon,  cheerily.  "He  owes  it  to  his 
own  merit  first  of  all,  and  to  a  string  of  lucky  chances 
afterwards.  Of  course  it's  nothing  really — I  mean  the 
commission  and  the  decoration.  But  in  this  case  it's 
of  enormous  importance.  Yes,  it  puts  dear  old  Jack 
on  his  legs." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  because  of  it  the  Insurance  Company 
are  going  to  reinstate  Jack  in  his  old  position.  They'll 
take  him  straight  back.  I  settled  that  with  them,  this 
morning." 

"I  have  no  words  to  say  what  I  think  of— of — your 
kindness." 

Carillon  put  the  newspaper  in  his  pocket,  and  they 
walked  on. 

They  went  far  across  the  Common,  as  though  un- 
consciously seeking  some  secluded  spot  where  they  could 
talk  quietly  without  observation.  There  had  been 
great  encroachments  on  the  Common  since  the  dear 
old  days;  a  large  part  was  fenced  in  as  a  military 
camp,  and  much  of  the  remainder  was  given  over  to 
allotment  gardens ;  but  on  the  further  side,  where  a  few 
of  the  stately  old  mansions  stood  unchanged  behind 
carriage  sweeps  and  sunk  moats,  they  found  a  com- 
fortable seat  beneath  tall  trees,  with  nobody  near  them 
except  an  old  lady  reading  a  novel  on  a  seat  fifty 


380  A  LITTLE  MORE 

yards  away.  It  was  so  pleasant  and  tranquil  here 
that  Mr.  Carillon  laid  his  hat  upon  his  knees,  and 
allowed  the  gentle  air  to  play  upon  his  forehead. 

He  began  almost  at  once  to  talk  about  the  parish, 
and  he  continued  for  some  time.  Violet  merely  listened 
and  suffered.  Somehow,  all  these  details,  although  in- 
tensely interesting,  were  not  the  sort  of  thing  that  she 
had  foolishly  been  expecting  to  hear.  An  immense 
sympathy,  of  course,  mingled  with  her  sharp  dis- 
appointment, and  she  struggled  hard  to  purify  her 
thoughts  from  any  selfish  regret. 

He  told  her  that  the  work  of  a  parish  priest  must 
necessarily  be  more  and  more  arduous.  The  whole 
world  had  changed.  New  difficulties  had  arisen. 
Everybody  looked  at  everything  from  a  fresh  point  of 
view.  Religion  itself  had  altered,  and  all  religious 
preachers  and  teachers  must  put  "their  backs  into  it" ; 
they  must  "work  like  good  'uns"  if  they  really  meant 
to  do  their  duty.  "It  will  not  be  an  easy  life,  Violet," 
and  he  drummed  on  the  top  of  his  hat.  "It  can't  be 
an  easy  life.  And  I  shall  need  all  the  help  I  can  get 
in  it." 

"Of  course.  I  know,"  said  Violet,  bravely;  "that  is 
— I  hear  you  are  thinking  of  getting  married." 

"Yes,  I  am,"  and  he  looked  at  her  triumphantly,  yet 
with  a  queer,  almost  whimsical  expression  in  his  face. 
"But  how  did  you  hear  that?" 

"Oh,  it's  common  talk." 

"Is  it  really?"  He  was  looking  away  from  Violet 
at  the  novel-reader  on  the  neighbouring  bench,  and  he 
saw  that  she  had  ceased  to  read  and  was  surveying  the 
landscape.  "Well,  common  talk  isn't  often  right,  but 
I  hope  it  is  this  time." 


THE  OLD  SONG  381 

"When  is  it  to  be?" 

"Well,  that  depends  on  the  young  lady."  Mr. 
Carillon  looked  round,  and  kept  his  eyes  on  Violet's 
face.  "Yes,"  he  said  again,  "that  depends  on  the 
young  lady.  I  haven't  asked  her  yet." 

"Not  asked  her?" 

"No.  What  will  she  say?  What  will  you  say? 
My  own  young  lady!  Violet — my  queen — put  me  out 
of  my  misery,  and  say  it  shall  be  soon."  He  had 
thrown  his  hat  away  somewhere,  he  was  opening  his 
arms,  and  glancing  over  his  shoulder  at  the  same  time. 
"Violet!  Quick!  Do  it.  Before  that  old  woman 
looks  round." 

And  they  did  it — quick  enough  at  the  start,  but  so 
slow  at  the  finish  that  when  the  old  lady  looked  round 
they  were  still  at  it.  The  old  lady  was  shocked.  A 
parson  and  a  girl  kissing  in  a  public  place !  What 
next!  Very  likely  just  chance  acquaintances  too. 

He  went  on  talking — the  right  stuff  now, — and  with 
overpowering  eloquence.  "Violet,  when  can  you  ever 
forgive  me?  Oh,  my  dear  girl,  if  you  knew  what  it 
has  cost  me.  When  I  saw  your  goodness,  your  nobil- 
ity, your  absolute  out  and  out  splendidness,  I  wanted 
to  stop  it.  It  was  torture  to  me  going  on,  but  I  had 
to  test  you,  Vi.  I  didn't  dare  take  things  for  granted. 
Glorious  as  you  seemed,  I  felt  I  must  know  for  certain. 
I  was  haunted  by  that  hateful  proverb —  'Once  bitten 
twice  shy.'  " 

And  in  one  of  his  most  exuberant  outbursts  he 
called  her  "queen"  again,  vowing  that  he  was  her  slave 
now  to  the  end  of  their  days.  "Not  any  more  on  your 
knees,  Vi.  No  more  housemaiding.  We'll  give  our 
month's  notice  at  once.  No.  We'll  go,  straightway, 


382  A  LITTLE  MORE 

and   forfeit   our  wages !"     And   he   laughed  j  oyously . 

Violet  had  been  lifted  into  elysium.  She  sat  with 
her  hat  slightly  on  one  side,  leaning  towards  him, 
listening  to  the  music  of  his  voice,  and  feeling  that 
she  was  soaring  through  sunlit  air. 

Presently  he  jumped  up,  and  they  walked  on  again. 
His  bliss  was  too  great  to  allow  him  to  sit  still. 

"Put  your  hat  straight,  Violet,"  he  said  to  her, 
affectionately  but  firmly. 

"Yes,  dear,"  and  she  obeyed  him.     "Is  that  better?" 

"Yes.  That's  all  right."  He  gave  her  hand  a 
squeeze,  and  they  went  on  to  where  four  paths  met. 

"Don't  go  on  the  grass,"  he  said  quickly.  "You'll 
get  your  feet  wet." 

"Very  well,  dear,"  and  she  returned  to  the  path- 
way. 

"There's  often  some  dew  that  one  does  not  see. 
What  were  we  speaking  of?" 

"There's  something  we  shall  have  to  speak  of,"  said 
Violet,  tentatively  and  uncomfortably.  "What  about 
Miss  Castlemayne?" 

"Miss  Castlemayne !"  he  echoed,  in  surprise.  "What 
about  her?" 

"Well,"  said  Violet,  "I'm  afraid — well — aren't  you 

afraid — won't  she  mind?  Didn't  she Wasn't 

she- " 

He  laughed  gaily.  "Vi!  You're  not  going  to  pre- 
tend you  thought  there  was  anything  between  us  two. 
Why,  Miss  Castlemayne  is  engaged." 

"Engaged !" 

"Yes.  To  her  cousin — Captain  Tower.  They're 
going  to  be  spliced  as  soon  as  he  gets  back  from  the 
Argentine."  Then  he  laughed  again.  "And  you 


THE  OLD  SONG  383 

actually  thought Oh,  absurd !  Bless  her  heart, 

I  count  on  Miss  Castlemayne  to  be  your  right  hand  in 
the  parish — that  is,  as  long  as  she  remains  here." 

Violet  was  intensely  glad.  The  thought  of  Miss 
Castlemayne's  agony  would  have  spoilt  her  own  ex- 
quisite joy. 

They  strolled  on. 

"Violet,  don't  walk  through  the  puddles." 

In  her  happiness  Violet  did  not  know  where  she  was 
walking. 

"Always  look  where  you're  going.  It's  a  silly  thing 
to  walk  right  through  a  puddle.  Keep  in  the  middle 
of  the  path,  and  try  to  walk  in  step  with  me." 

"For  a  slave — as  you  called  yourself,"  said  Violet, 
smiling,  "how  you  do  order  one  about !" 

"Do  I?"  said  Mr.  Carillon,  contrite  and  ashamed. 
"I'm  awfully  sorry.  That's  a  bad  habit.  You  must 
stop  me  doing  that,  Vi." 

"No,"  said  Vi,  "I  shan't  stop  you.  I— I  like  it," 
and  she  turned  her  large  soft  eyes  upon  him  in  a  sort 
of  ecstasy  of  submissiveness. 


CHAPTER  IV 

ABOUT  three  o'clock  on  the  following  afternoon 
Mr.  Welby,  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  was  giving 
final  touches  to  the  coffee-room  tables  already 
laid  for  the  table-d'hote  dinner. 

Mrs.  Welby  suddenly  appeared  at  the  door. 

"Put  on  your  coat,  father.  Sarah  says  there's 
company  for  you." 

"Company  for  me?" 

"It's  Mr.  Carillon  has  brought  them.  Hurry.  Oh, 
I'm  so  excited." 

Mrs.  Welby  had  picked  up  the  swallow-tails  from  the 
back  of  a  chair,  and  as  she  spoke  she  helped  her  hus- 
band to  get  into  them. 

Then  Sarah  appeared.     She,  too,  seemed  excited. 

"Old  friends  and  happy  surprises,"  said  Sarah,  smil- 
ing affectionately.  "Master  Jack,  Miss  Violet — Miss 
Primrose — yes,  and  somebody  else — a  stranger  as  yet 
— but  we'll  leave  him  outside  for  the  moment.  Step 
this  way,  gentlemen";  and  she  announced  them  as  they 
entered  the  room.  "The  vicar.  .  .  .  Mr.  Rolls." 

"How  are  you,  my  dear  Mr.  Welby?"  said  old  Rolls, 
shaking  hands  and  letting  his  eye-glass  fall  to  the  end 
of  the  black  ribbon.  Time  had  dealt  kindly  with  Mr. 
Rolls.  He  was  a  little  stouter,  a  little  heavier,  a  very 
little  less  pompous,  but  as  professionally  correct  as 
ever. 

Behind  him  the  room  seemed  to  surge  with  members 
of  the  Welby  family — Jack,  looking  quite  smart  and 

384 


THE  OLD  SONG  385 

debonair  in  a  new  blue  serge  suit;  Amabel,  with  eyes 
proudly  shining;  Primrose,  bright,  gay,  quick-moving; 
and  Violet,  stately  and  silent.  Mr.  Welby's  daughters 
kissed  their  father  affectionately ;  Jack  greeted  him  with 
a  laugh,  and  a  slap  on  the  shoulder;  Mr.  Carillon 
merely  beamed  at  him. 

"Lock  that  door,"  said  Sarah,  pointing.  "So  that 
we  shan't  have  people  coming  through  from  the  other 
room.  Now  you  sit  down,  dear  Mr.  Welby,  and  let 
Mr.  Rolls  talk  to  you." 

Mr.  Welby  seated  himself  and  stared  at  Mr.  Rolls, 
who  had  moved  a  chair  and  now  sat  facing  him. 

"I  will  be  brief,"  said  Mr.  Rolls,  adjusting  his  eye- 
glass. "Mr.  Welby,  I  have  good  news  for  you." 

"I  can  do  with  a  bit  of  good  news." 

"Yes,  but  they  say  that  with  very  good  news  it 
should  be  broken  gently,  or  it  may  be  almost  as  danger- 
ous as  bad  news." 

Mr.  Welby  only  stared  at  him.  The  face  of  Mrs. 
Welby,  behind  her  husband's  chair,  was  twitching,  and 
the  fingers  of  one  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair  opened 
and  shut  spasmodically. 

"Very  well  then!"  And  amid  the  profound  and 
watchful  silence  of  the  others  Mr.  Rolls  told  his  story 
of  restitution  and  recovery. 

"Stop,"  said  Mr.  Welby.     "Hold  on.     I'm  not  tak- 
ing it  in.     Say  all  that  last  part  again." 
Mr.  Rolls  repeated  the  story. 

"Steady.  Hold  on,"  said  Mr.  Welby  once  more,  and 
he  murmured  words  that  he  had  just  heard:  "Much 
saved  after  all  from  the  wreck, —  The  claim  al- 
lowed,—  The  government  to  refrmd, —  The  money 
available  on  demand!"  Then,  leaning  forward,  he 


386  A  LITTLE  MORE 

clutched  Mr.  Rolls  by  the  arm.  "Give  me  the  figures — 
the  plain  figures." 

Mr.  Rolls  did  so. 

"Now  stop.  Let  me  get  my  bearings,  please."  Mr. 
Welby  ran  his  hand  through  his  grey  hair,  then  waved 
it  aloft.  "Why — why,  this  means  I  shall  be  back  to 
pretty  near  where  I  was  in  the  beginning."  He  was 
trembling  now  all  over  his  big  frame.  "Mother,  where 
are  you?  Have  you  grasped  it?  D'you  see  what  it 
means?  I  shall  have  about  the  same  as  if  I'd  never 
lost  my  nest-egg." 

He  had  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  Mrs.  Welby  came 
round  from  the  back  of  the  chair  and  clung  to  him. 

"Rolls — no  catch  to  it?" 

"No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Rolls  and  Mr.  Carillon  in  the 
same  breath. 

"Jack — no  fun  of  yours?  That  I  couldn't  stand. 
Not  pulling  my  leg?" 

"No,  it's  rumbo,  governor,"  said  Jack.  "Take  it 
easy.  Have  a  blow." 

Gradually  Mr.  Welby  pulled  himself  together;  he 
drew  himself  to  his  full  height,  looked  round  at  them 
all,  and  blew  out  his  cheeks  in  a  long  sigh  of  joy. 

"It  means,"  he  said,  glancing  round  the  old  room, 
"it  means  that  I  could  buy  back  this  house  if  it  was  in 
the  market." 

"It  is  in  the  market,"  Sarah  announced  quietly. 

"What  say?" 

"I  say  I  am  ready  and  willing  to  sell  it  for  the  same 
price  I  gave  you — part  to  remain  on  mortgage,  if  you 
like,  and  such  of  the  furniture  as  you  want  at  a  valua- 
tion or  by  mutual  agreement." 

"But  the  business — the  hotel?     Oh,  no,  Sarah.     Not 


THE  OLD  SONG  387 

to  be  thought  of,"  and  Mr.  Welby  shook  his  head 
resolutely  but  sadly.  "I  won't  for  one  moment  of  time 
allow  you  to  contemplate  making  such  a  quixotic 
sacrifice." 

"Sacrifice !  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  said  Sarah  stoutly. 
"Listen,  sir,  and  I'll  explain  my  position.  I  don't  say 
that  in  naming  terms  I  haven't  considered  the  pleasure 
I'm  going  to  get  out  of  it  by  seeing  you  and  dear  Mrs. 
Welby  living  here  again  in  your  old  home.  No. 
Naturally  I'm  ready  to  sell  to  you  cheaper  than  to 
anyone  else." 

"Sarah !" 

"But  it's  no  question  of  knocking  the  business  to 
pieces  by  parting  with  this  one  house  out  of  the  three. 
The  establishment  is  too  large — it  does  not  carry  the 
trade  to  justify  it.  You,  as  a  business  gentleman, 
must  have  seen  that  for  yourself."  And  she  went  on 
to  say  that  the  two  remaining  houses  would  make  a 
much  more  compact  affair,  and  that  she  was  going  to 
sell  it  to  someone  that  Mr.  Carillon  had  found  for  her. 

"It  is  he  who  has  done  everything,"  said  Violet,  in  a 
low,  intense  voice. 

"You  see,"  said  Sarah,  winding  up  her  explanaton, 
"the  war  was  my  harvest-time.  I  made  a  tidy  profit 
during  the  war.  I've  put  it  by,  and  I  don't  want  to 
risk  losing  it ;  times  aren't  going  to  boom  for  ever,  and 
I  ain't  as  young  as  I  was.  Besides,"  and  she  looked 
round,  smiling,  "why  should  I?  When  you've  got 
enough,  why  should  you  want  more?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Welby.  "That's  sound  philosophy, 
If  you  put  it  in  that  light,  Sarah,  well,  I  must  con- 
fess  " 

"Come  here,  sir,  along  with  me."     And  Sarah  led 


388  A  LITTLE  MORE 

him  out  through  the  hall  to  the  back  of  the  house. 

"See,"  she  said,  pointing  here  and  there.  "It  will  be 
so  easy  to  make  everything  just  as  it  was  before  you 
left.  Take  down  this  wood-work,  and  you  have  the 
verandah  untouched.  Block  up  where  I've  put  that 
door  in  the  wall." 

Mr.  Welby  stood  there,  looking  out  into  the  garden. 
The  March  sunlight  shone  upon  the  brickwork  of  the 
left-hand  wall  and  upon  one  half  of  the  grass  lawn, 
showing  him  that  the  fruit  trees  had  been  badly 
neglected,  and  that  the  once  smooth  sward  was  injured 
by  the  markings  of  the  odious  game  known  as  clock- 
golf;  but  he  understood  that  there  would  be  no 
difficulty  either  in  trimming  the  fruit  trees  or  in  mak- 
ing the  turf  fit  for  the  reinstatement  of  the  croquet 
hoops,  and  so  rapid  is  thought  that  he  saw  it  all  as  it 
would  be  in  a  couple  of  months  from  now,  when  he  had 
finished  it — with  the  plums  and  cherries  in  full  blossom, 
the  hawthorn  coming  out,  and  the  laburnum  about  to 
wave  its  yellow  plumes  in  the  warm  evening  air. 

When  he  and  Sarah  returned  to  the  dining-room  it 
was  full  of  noise  and  gaiety.  Everybody  seemed  to  be 
talking  without  listening,  and  half  of  them  were  laugh- 
ing. 

Primrose  had  introduced  another  guest,  a  tall  pale 
nicely-dressed  young  man,  and,  blushing  and  giggling, 
she  took  him  by  the  arm  and  brought  him  across  to  her 
father. 

"Mr.  Welby,  sir,"  she  said,  flippantly  and  yet  with 
emotion,  "I  want  you  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
Geoffrey  Merritt." 

"Any  friend  of  yours,  Prim,  is  a  friend  of  mine," 
said  Mr.  Welby,  scarcely  knowing  what  he  was  saying. 


THE  OLD  SONG  389 

"My  best  friend,  father,"  said  Primrose,  laughing, 
as  she  watched  them  shake  hands.  "My  life-long 
friend  as  I  hope.  Twiggez-vous,  mon  pere?" 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  great 
affability. 

"I  can't  say  how  much  I  have  looked  forward  to  this 
meeting,"  said  Mr.  Merritt,  very  shyly.  "It  would 

have  occurred  long  ago,  if — if "  And  his  shyness 

made  him  stop  speaking  altogether. 

"Oh,  rats,"  said  Primrose.  "Father,  Geoffrey  and  I 
are  engaged  to  be  married." 

Mr.  Welby  drew  back  in  jovial  amazement.  "Well, 
upon  my  word !  Without  so  much  as  by  your  leave  or 
for  your  leave.  The  modern  girl  with  a  vengeance! 
How  do  you  know  I  shall  give  my  consent?" 

"I  feel,"  said  Geoffrey  Merritt,  "that  I  am  to  blame." 

"Mother,  come  here,"  called  Mr.  Welby  loudly. 
"Have  vou  heard  this?  Have  you  seen  your  new  son- 
in-law?" 

"I've  seen  both  my  new  sons-in-law,"  said  Mrs. 
Welby,  bridling  and  smiling  contentedly. 

"What  say?" 

Mr.  Carillon  came  forward,  leading  Violet  by  the 
hand. 

"We  also  are  engaged  to  be  married,"  said  Carillon, 
"and  I  hope  you  will  not  withhold  your  approval." 

"No,  this  is  too  much,"  said  Mr.  Welby  in  boisterous 
rapture.  "I  won't  have  it.  I  put  my  foot  down. 
Ha-ha,"  and  he  chuckled  joyously.  "You  impose  up- 
on my  good-nature,  sir;  you  think  that  because  you 
have  placed  me  under  an  obligation  you  can  ask  for 
what  you  please.  Lor',  I  can't  pretend — or  try  to  be 
funny.  Carillon,  my  dear  fellow,"  and  he  wrung  the 


390  A  LITTLE  MORE 

vicar's  hand,  "I  am  overjoyed.  It's  all  like  a  dream. 
You  are  the  very  husband  we  always  wished  for  her. 
Oh,  I'm  so  glad — so  happy — I  feel  like  bursting.  Vi, 
bless  you."  Then  he  turned  hurriedly  to  Primrose. 
"You,  too,  my  dear  little  Prim,"  and  he  whispered  to 
her.  "What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  your  young 
man?  Geoffrey  Merritt?  Just  so.  ...  Geoffrey — 
for  I  take  that  liberty — Geoffrey,  my  dear  fellow, 
welcome  to  the  family.  Be  worthy  of  her — for,  believe 
me,  you  have  won  a  prize." 

"I — I — I  know  I  have,"  stammered  Geoffrey;  "a  far 
greater  prize  than  my  deserts  warranted." 

"Rats,"  said  Primrose  once  more. 

Meanwhile,  during  these  transports,  Sarah  and  Mr. 
Rolls  had  been  having  a  little  chat  near  the  window  in 
regard  to  the  sale  of  her  business.  Mr.  Rolls  now  said 
he  must  be  going,  and  began  to  bid  adieu  to  his  clients. 

"Mayn't  I  offer  you  some  refreshment?"  said  Sarah, 
hospitably. 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Rolls.     "I  have  lunched." 

"That's  more  than  I  have,"  said  Carillon,  with  a 
laugh. 

"Nor  I  either,"  said  Jack. 

And  while  Sarah  escorted  Mr.  Rolls  to  the  front 
door  each  in  turn  confessed  to  feeling  hungry.  The 
excitement  appeared  to  have  stimulated  the  appetite 
even  of  those  who  had  had  their  usual  mid-day  meal. 

"Now  what  I  say  is  this,"  said  Sarah  returning. 
"We  must  celebrate  it  somehow.  We'll  just  have  the 
very  best  snack  we  can  get  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
and  wash  it  down  with  a  glass  of  champagne."  She 
had  rung  the  bell,  and  she  bustled  to  the  speaking-tube 
by  the  sideboard.  "Our  number  six.  Extra  Seek.  I 


THE  OLD  SONG  391 

don't  say  it's  pre-war — but  I've  never  received  com- 
plaints about  it.  Any  one  who  prefers  tea  can  have 
tea." 

Then  one  heard  her  giving  orders  to  the  kitchen  for 
omelettes,  cold  ham,  sardines,  and  so  forth. 

"I'll  go  down  and  see  to  it,"  said  Mrs.  Welby. 

"No,  you  stay  where  you  are,"  said  Sarah.  "Trust 
the  girl  for  once.  Besides,  I'll  go  down  myself." 

Then  she  gave  orders  to  the  two  youthful  waiters, 
who  had  answered  the  bell. 

"Put  those  three  tables  together.  Make  one  of 
them.  Lay  eight  places." 

"Eight  places  ?"  said  Mr.  Welby.     "You  mean  nine." 

"No,  there's  only  eight  of  you,  sir." 

"Sarah,  do  you  mean  you  don't  intend  to  sit  down 
with  us  yourself?" 

"I  will,  if  you  really  wish  it,"  said  Sarah,  beaming. 

"If  I  really  wish  it !"  And  Mr.  Welby  roared  at  the 
young  waiters.  "Nine  places." 

Sarah  continued  to  give  orders. 

"Get  one  of  those  placards  marked  Private,  and  hang 
it  outside  the  door,  on  the  handle.  Say  I  can't  see 
anyone,  if  I'm  asked  for.  And  do  the  tea  in  the  lounge 
yourselves." 

The  preparations  for  the  little  feast  went  forward 
rapidly,  while  the  reunited  family  chattered  all  to- 
gether. Mrs.  Welby  could  be  heard  fragmentally  as 
her  guests  paid  her  honour. 

"Geoffrey — for  so  I  must  call  you — you  and  Prim 
have  been  sly,  very  sly.  ...  Of  course  I  knew  I  should 
lose  them  both  some  day  or  other.  .  .  .  Amabel,  my 
dear,  is  it  not  glorious  about  Jack?  The  military 
cross — and  the  office !  He  goes  to  his  desk  to-morrow, 


392  A  LITTLE  MORE 

doesn't  he?  .  .  .  Geoffrey,  you  also  were  in  the  war. 
And  so  clever  at  electricity,  Primrose  tells  me.  .  .  . 
Now,  my  dear  vicar,  don't  think  I'm  neglecting  you. 
A  word  in  your  ear.  It  was  quite  true  what  my  hus- 
band said — always  our  wish.  Well,  you  get  the  reward 
of  your  constancy.  The  course  of  true  love  never  did 
run  smooth,  did  it?  Oh,  the  admiration  that  girl 
received !  I  mean,  not  only  when  she  was  going  about 
in  society  but  just  recently,  when  we  had  fallen  so  low 
— quite  embarrassing."  And  Mrs.  Welby  had  a  pleas- 
ant little  titter.  "But  Vi  made  nothing  of  it.  Her 
heart,  I  think,  was  in  somebody's  keeping  all  the  time. 
She  never  changed  really.  True  as  the  magnet  to  the 
pole." 

Mr.  Welby  was  walking  about  the  room,  talking  to 
himself  when  the  others  did  not  seem  to  listen.  His 
heart  was  overflowing.  He  looked  at  the  cornice,  the 
floor  skirtings,  the  window  latches — he  was  in  his  old 
home,  the  master  of  the  house,  the  kindly  chieftain  of 
the  family  group.  Every  moment  he  grew  more 
expansive,  more  genially  important,  more  like  his  old 
self. 

"Our  friend  Rolls,"  he  said,  with  immense  joviality, 
"our  good  friend  Rolls  seemed  to  think  that  happiness 
.may  kill";  and  again  he  blew  out  his  cheeks.  "If  so, 
then  it  may  kill  you  to  have  a  dead  weight  lifted  off 
your  shoulders,  to  have  your  back  relieved  so's  you  can 
stand  up  straight,  to  be  made  ten  years  younger  than 
you  were.  That's  how  I  feel." 

"The  refection  is  served,  sir,"  said  Sarah. 

"To  table — to  table,"  cried  Mr.  Welby,  exactly  in 
his  old  style;  and  they  all  began  to  move  towards  the 
improvised  board. 


THE  OLD  SONG  393 

The  waiters  opened  two  bottles  of  wine,  making  two 
loud  detonations. 

"Take  cover,"  said  Jack  facetiously.  "Let  no  one 
attempt  to  go  through  the  barrage.  It  will  be  over 
in  twenty  minutes." 

"Can't  we  wait  upon  ourselves?"  said  Amabel. 

"Yes —  Yes —  Yes";  and  the  waiters  were  sent 
from  the  room. 

They  all  sat  down —  Mr.  Welby  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  dear  old  Sarah  facing  him,  Mrs.  Welby  on  his 
right  hand,  Amabel  on  his  left.  With  a  delicately  pro- 
prietorial smile  Violet  indicated  to  the  vicar  that  the 
empty  chair  beside  her  was  his  proper  place,  and  Prim- 
rose personally  installed  the  shy  Geoffrey  as  her  own 
neighbour.  Mr.  Welby  glanced  at  the  shining  happy 
faces. 

"Hold  on,"  he  said  suddenly.  "One  moment,  please. 
You  must  all  stand  up  again."  He  spoke  genially  yet 
firmly,  just  in  the  old  way,  as  a  man  giving  an  order 
in  his  own  house  and  expecting  to  be  obeyed.  "Stand 
up." 

They  all  stood  up,  looking  at  Mr.  Welby  in  wonder. 

"Mr.  Carillon!" 

"Yes?" 

"Will  you  kindly  say  grace." 

Mr.  Carillon  folded  his  hands  and  looked  at  the  table- 
cloth. 

"For  what  we  are  about  to  receive  may  the  Lord 
make  us  truly  thankful." 

"Amen,"  said  Mr.  Welby,  with  fervour. 

THE    END 


SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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